


New Territory

by Lovefushsia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot of not-a-date dating, Alcohol as an aide to platonic not-dating, Awkward Dates, Complete, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dinner dates, Frustrated John Watson, John is very self-controlled, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Nakedness, Oh yes, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship Discussions, Sherlock gatecrashes John's workplace, Sherlock's dressing gown, Sherlock's jeans from the pilot, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, admission of feelings, after the shower, alcohol discussions, because, i can't handle it!, john helps his sister, more kissing, much ado about a dressing gown, omg let's take this slowly, safe sex, sherlock gains a bit of confidence, still awkward though!, there's a lot of gasping, they don't make it to dinner, this is not explicit yet but I'm tagging now in case i forget, well chapter 13 is on the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10324316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovefushsia/pseuds/Lovefushsia
Summary: Sherlock sat down next to him. "John, if there's anything you need to talk about, I'm sure Mrs Hudson is still awake."***John finally admits that he is struggling with his feelings for Sherlock. Sherlock lets him down gently and things go on as they were. Then John finds Sherlock planning various definitely-not-dates and John begins to think maybe he IS interested in moving their friendship to new territory?***I tend to think aloud into the void of Tumblr, so, you know, just in case...Lovefushsiais over there as well ;)





	1. One

_We're not a couple_ , he'd said. _I'm not gay_ , he'd said. And yet, he knew - he knew he was lying to them all. John walked back home slowly, avoiding the short cuts, reliving all the times he had denied his affection for his friend, needing as much rehearsal time as he could get before this conversation that he knew needed to happen.

He had to be honest with himself now, as well as Sherlock. He knew he liked women; well some of them. Not The Woman certainly. He had never considered a man attractive, not once looked at a man and felt drawn to him in any way other than friendship, comradeship. But then Sherlock arrived in his life and since that day, John felt that he had no real care for another living soul. He dabbled in relationships mainly due to boredom, frustration, desperately trying to avoid acknowledging his real feelings for his friend.

He stopped dead for a moment, pressing a hand to his chest, stumbling and leaning on the shop doorway beside him, letting the tightness subside. He felt tears spring to his eyes. _Oh God_ , this was why he kept it inside. Because if Sherlock was who John feared, was immune to the emotions of others, deliberately kept himself separate from attachment to anyone, then John didn't know if he could live with that - with the burning desires he had, the dreadful need for the reciprocation of his feelings... well, even the acknowledgement of his feelings. John didn't know how to even begin to deal with any of this.

A group of loudly chattering people jolted him out of his thoughts and he cleared his throat, rubbed at his eyes and drew himself up to his full height once more. _Come on, John._ He could do this. He had to, he'd been through so much worse than this, surely? But maybe the pain of rejection, of loss - even though you couldn't lose something that had never really been yours... maybe those things were the worst of all?

Baker Street was quiet when he finally reached it. A street lamp was out and the remaining lights left an enclosing dark shadow across a large portion of the road, including 221B. John waited at the foot of the steps for some time, unable to make that final move to either the relief or the devastation of what he must do.

When the door opened John jumped in surprise and Mrs Hudson jumped as well, hand clutching the front of her cardigan as she gasped and clung to the black bags in her other hand.

"Oh, John! What are you doing standing out here? I thought you must be on an all-nighter?" She looked around and added, "Sherlock not with you, dear?"

"Uh, no... he's not here?" John asked, deflating yet again as he realised he would have to wait now for Sherlock to get home.

He helped Mrs Hudson with the bags and said goodnight at the foot of the stairs. Then he sat down on the bottom stair and let the clunk of the door drown out the sound of his heart breaking in pre-emptive horror at what Sherlock would say.

He was still sitting there, head resting on his drawn up knees, when the front door opened. John's head shot up and there was Sherlock - collar raised, of course; scarf perfectly placed, perfectly knotted. One hand went up through his curls – magnificent – John knew it all. He saw each tiny detail of Sherlock's face in his best and worst dreams. His infatuation with this man was so extensive that he couldn't bear to think of the days before they met. Admitting that his obsession was more than an admiration for Sherlock's work, for his mind... could he do it?

"John," Sherlock exclaimed, rarely alarmed but apparently he was at the sight of John. "What's happened? Is it Mrs Hudson?" He had his hand placed on John's shoulder within two steps, looking anxiously between John and Mrs Hudson's front door.

"No, not at all, nothing-"

"Why are you sitting down here? Are you unwell?"

"I-"

"Tell me, John."

He would if he could get a word in, if he could find one amongst the adjectives flying around his head, forcing him to do this, to bring out these feelings- "Damn it!" he said sharply. "I can't live like this, Sherlock." He clambered to his feet. "Where were you? I can't... how can I relax if you're off _God_ knows where, doing... whatever it is that has you out all night-"

"It's only 10pm," John heard, and Sherlock was checking his watch.

But John ploughed on into whatever territory this was...

"You can't even send a text to let me know where you are? Or how about damn-well asking me for help once in a while? We're meant to have each other's backs, isn't that the point? We're a partnership." But even as the words came out he knew, it was a futile argument. They had never declared it to be anything other than a working thing. John had no hold over this man. He knew it, even as Sherlock looked at him in a way that made John want to cry. John took a breath, no idea what more to add.

Sherlock took a step back and actually looked lost for words as well, truly taken aback by John's ridiculous outburst. "We are," he finally said, quietly. "I'm sorry John, I knew I could do this one alone, I didn't want to disturb your work." He was frowning. "John," he said again, and John frowned to match his but he didn't interrupt. "Are you all right?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't find any sensible words and he felt like a complete prick. He was an idiot. "I'm an idiot. I'm sorry." He held out his hands, palms flat as he apologised. "You don't need to answer to me, or anyone. I was worried, and I'm sorry," he finished, sitting heavily back on the stair.

Sherlock sat down next to him. "John, if there's anything you need to talk about, I'm sure Mrs Hudson is still awake."

John huffed out a chuckle. That was better. Humour was better. Although he did not feel much like laughing. He tried to stop himself, knew it was pointless to talk about it, to admit anything to his friend - because that's _all_ they were... So for another moment he kept quiet but it was impossible when he looked back into those kind, warm eyes. So close to him now...

"I was thinking about the day we met," he started softly. "About what I asked you then, at Angelos," _Do you have a boyfriend?_ "I should have thought more about it. I wasn't thinking clearly, I wasn't even sure why I was asking and I ended up sounding like I was prying and... well, what I've always wanted to tell you... was that, I've never met anyone like you before, and it wouldn't matter who you were, man or woman - you fascinate me. I've never felt that way about anyone else." He got up suddenly, feeling too close, not wanting to make Sherlock any more uncomfortable than, if his face was anything to go by, John's words already had.

He paced away, risking a quick look back - Sherlock hadn't moved, he was staring at John and was still, apart from one knee bouncing up and down and making his coat shiver across his lap. "I don't expect anything from you. I needed you to know, because if we need to end this-" John swallowed hard, the very thought tearing him apart.

Sherlock was shaking his head before John could finish that thought. "John, wait, before you say anything else." He got to his feet but after a step forward he stopped, hands flopping at his sides as John backed up for his own protection. "You are my doctor, and equally you know I usually appreciate your capabilities on our cases." He gave a small smirk, before his face became serious once more. "But most importantly, you once told me that I'm your friend. Friends, John. That's the most... intense relationship I've ever had. I didn't know I was capable of maintaining a friendship. I have no idea how to think about doing anything else."

Always articulate, always honest. Yes, of course. Why had John thought this would be difficult? It was Sherlock. And the crushed feeling that he was now experiencing was less devastating because he knew they were all they could be. They already had the relationship that no one else had ever managed with Sherlock.

"Ok," he said, nodding a little and rubbing at his tired eyes – definitely only watering because it had been a long day, no other reason. "You're right. It's fine. This is fine."

"John," Sherlock began softly, "this won't change anything? The work, or..."

John wanted to kick himself. What the actual fuck was he thinking, doing this to Sherlock? "God, no, no not at all. Shit, I'm so sorry." He hung his head, he felt terrible. "Nothing is going to change, Sherlock, I just needed to get this out there... but, with hindsight, I definitely should have kept it to myself."

"Don't apologise. You shouldn't have to suffer in silence."

"No, but this was unfair. I didn't think about you and... I'm sorry."

"Can we just-"

John cut him off. "Pretend this never happened?" he supplied. Sherlock frowned, but nodded which crushed John's heart a little more, even though they were his words.

Sherlock moved towards him, within arm's reach when he spoke again. "I am glad that you told me," he whispered. "I don't know that I've responded in the way that you would have liked, but I'll try to be more aware of your feelings in future."

John took in a hitched breath and closed his eyes. Without anything to compare this to, Sherlock had responded perfectly. John couldn't fault him at all. "Sherlock, no, you don't have to do that. I didn't have any expectations." He opened his eyes, took a look at his friend to see if that was as offensive to him as it sounded to John. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. "We're ok," John finished lamely.

"Ok," Sherlock confirmed. "Well, I think we'd better get upstairs before Mrs Hudson puts two and two together and makes you regret ever meeting me."

"You're an idiot," John told him fondly, as they started up the stairs. "But meeting you will always be the best thing that ever happened to me."

Sherlock turned back to him on the stairs. "I can't believe that for a moment," he said.

John just smiled sadly and waited for Sherlock to continue up before letting his face fall.


	2. Two

So... this wasn't going to be awkward. Not at all.

John studied his reflection in the mirror on his wardrobe, stifling another yawn. Tired. He just looked perpetually exhausted. He certainly felt it right now after the worst night's sleep in some time. He was certain he had heard the bloody birds singing before he even closed his eyes.

He had also heard a fair bit of pacing around, tea making and general non-sleeping from Sherlock through the night. He didn't expect to see him awake before he left for the surgery. John had wanted to go down to him, to try and talk about it again, but what else was there to say? _Look, about last night, I know I said I have feelings, but let's just forget about it, ok? Really, like let's go back to me being frustrated by every item in the fridge and you constantly hunting for your cigarettes._ Normal, everyday stuff, not this new terrifying acknowledgment that there was _more_ between them.  

He drew both hands through his hair, grabbed his dressing gown and tiptoed downstairs to shower yesterday away.

What John didn't expect was Sherlock appearing at the top of the stairs as he was pulling on his coat.

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked, groggy, sleepy-voiced.

"Um, Tuesday, I think," John said, after pulling the toast away from his mouth, still feeling far from awake, hoping a brisk stroll would help things. When he looked up at the vision at the top of the stairs though, he knew there was no hope of ever shaking the reality of how he felt for Sherlock. It was the sheet. Why did he have such an aversion to clothes? John blinked, turned his back before he could imagine anything more inappropriate at 7am, and called a resigned, "See you later," before opening the door and making his way to work.

_Never look back, John - never look back._

***

Sherlock was up to his elbows in something in the kitchen sink when John returned home with shopping bags. He had made sure to stay out a little longer than usual, despite knowing that things would never go back to normal if he avoided the flat, but he just wasn't ready to go home.

"Everything... ok?" he asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder. The smell made him move swiftly back. "Sherlock, seriously, can't you do this in a lab somewhere?"

"I tried," Sherlock mumbled from behind a surgical mask. "Molly's on holiday and no one else would let me in."

"Hmm, I wonder why," John said, starting to put away the food.

"You're late," Sherlock stated, without turning around.

"Yeah, Sainsbury's was closed, some kind of emergency. Had to backtrack."

"Oh. I hope you didn't get that awful bread again, the toast is like cardboard," Sherlock said, finally looking around, gloved hands dripping over the sink as John held up a loaf with an eyebrow raised. "Ah, well, thankfully I do in fact like the taste of cardboard."

John narrowed his eyes. "You know, there's nothing stopping you from buying your own damn bread once in a while."

"Can't, too busy. The cases, John!"

John just smiled. Of course. Well, at least there didn't seem to be any lingering uneasiness about last night, maybe they were already passed it? John pushed down the twinge of hurt as he closed the fridge door. He should, theoretically, feel better, having got the burden of feelings off his chest. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have worked like that for him.

***

"You're going out?"

"Yes, meeting Mike after work, I told you." John watched Sherlock for a while, trying to judge his mood, but as often happened he was closed off, not exactly an open book at any time, but right now John had no idea whether he was annoyed, upset, nonchalant... "If you need me, I can meet him downstairs instead for a coffee. Or I can stay?" he tried.

"No, not necessary," Sherlock said, before going back to his experiment.

"Ok," John drew out, pretty sure that if this was anyone but Sherlock then the current mood would be easy to read as 'pissed off'.

Sherlock had never taken notice of John's nights out until _The Talk_ the other week. John wasn't sure why he suddenly cared so much. He left a few minutes later with a brief, "Call if you need anything," to which Sherlock humphed but didn't look up.

John didn't want to be in the pub from the minute he sat down with his first pint. Mike was great, he had introduced John to Sherlock, they'd known each other for years, on and off - he was a good friend. But really, right at this moment, John just wanted to be anywhere that Sherlock was. The trouble was he felt that way more often than not these days, and it was disconcerting. Especially now, since he had admitted everything, well, almost everything, to Sherlock. He couldn't discuss his feelings with anyone else though, and he was running out of excuses as to why he wasn't chatting up women.

He sat looking out of the window while Mike was in the toilet. When he came back John would be ready to tell him he was calling it a night. He wasn't rushing home to see Sherlock, he was just tired, that was all. He squinted through the glass to the street - a shadowed figure in a long coat was passing under an awning across the road from the pub. It couldn't be Sherlock, surely? Too much of a coincidence, and he had no reason to be checking up on John. He turned back to his beer and thought no more about it until a woman began trying to attract his attention by asking him about his work, and then it was purely circumstantial that Sherlock entered his head again. Time to go. He stood up and left a tenner on the bar top, headed over to where he could see Mike reappearing and nodded to the front doors when he caught his eye. Mike followed, questioning of course, but John gave his excuses and they parted at the tube station.

Back at the flat Sherlock's coat was hanging on the peg where John had seen it earlier. The man himself was settled on the sofa reading when John opened the lounge door.

He didn't even look around. "Good time?" he murmured.

John nodded while he took off his gloves. "Yes thanks, did you get up to much?"

"Nothing exciting."

"You should come with me next time," John tried.

"Mmm, not really my scene, John."

"Ah, what is your _scene_ , exactly?"

"Something involving less noise and less people, I'd imagine."

John pursed his lips. "Right, ok," he said. "Well, feel free to suggest somewhere if you change your mind."

He wasn't cross, not exactly, he just wanted for once to be on the same page as Sherlock, to see inside his head and not suppose that they were on different plains of reality all the time. He pushed away the memory of the shadowy form of Sherlock outside The Viaduct. Whether or not it was him, John had no reason to worry about it, he just had to keep pushing through each day.

***

The next time John was going out Sherlock was waiting in his coat when John came into the living room. "Oh, you're off out as well?" he asked, aiming for nonchalance and knowing he was failing. He was trying hard to believe that Sherlock wasn't in any danger going out alone. He'd managed fine before John came along. "New case?"

"No, I wondered if you would mind me joining you?"

"You? Out for a drink?" Sherlock nodded. "With me? And Mike? And noise, and... people?"

"Yes, John, I thought I could do with the experience. If you'd rather I didn't-"

"No, no, it's fine, that's... yeah, great, I just thought- it's no problem at all. Shall we go?" He cursed inwardly at his fumbling, but Sherlock only smiled at him as they went out into the hall.

The trouble was, what would they find to talk about that wasn't related to a case, or to something even worse, like their living arrangements? He supposed it wouldn't be too bad since Mike would be there to stay John's nerves.

It was quite bad though. Within the first five minutes Mike was the one to bring it up.

"So, you two have been living together for some time now - was it the right move?"

John side-eyed Sherlock, who had picked up his orange juice and was sipping genteelly. "Mmm," John murmured, reaching quickly for his pint.

"You must see a fair bit of each other, working and living together? I'm not sure I would manage it."

Finally, Sherlock chipped in, "Ah, but John's not around much, he seems to prefer the surgery to accompanying me these days. Isn't that right, John?"

Mike's smile faltered as he looked between the two of them.

"What? Ah, no that's not true at all," John said with a frown, after managing to swallow.

"Isn't it?" Sherlock asked, innocently. "Only yesterday you texted me to say you couldn't make our appointment and would I take that chicken out of the freezer because you'd be late."

John stared at him. "The chicken that ended up being dissected before you fried it over your Bunsen burner?"

"You were very late, I was bored."

John nodded and went back to his beer.

"Takeaway then, was it?" Mike asked with a grin.

"Hmm, more often than not I'm afraid at the moment," John said.

"Well, maybe if you kept to our arrangements more often you'd be home in time to make dinner," Sherlock mumbled towards the table.

John's eyebrows rose in surprise at that. "Excuse me, but when did I become your live-in chef?"

"Well, I'd hardly call you a chef, perhaps with a few more years of practice..."

"Oh yeah, that - that's charming," John said, and he pushed his chair back, intending to go to the bar for the next half hour at least. Mike was looking between them both with a confused expression, when John asked if he'd like another drink. He didn't offer one to Sherlock.

He sat down heavily at the bar and tried to avoid downing his fresh drink. He wasn't alone for long.

"So, this is where you spend your time."

John started at the voice by his ear. He turned to find Sherlock perched on the adjacent stool. "Sherlock," he began, but he couldn't find another thing to add. He shook his head a little.

"I wasn't being serious, you know," Sherlock told him softly.

"About what?" John asked flatly.

"You, not wanting to work with me. I don't believe you feel that way."

John looked over the rim of his glass at his friend. "You're right." He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "But, I have..." another small cough, "I have been avoiding you a little. I'm sorry."

"Why? I thought we were ok?"

"We are," John nodded. "We are ok. We're good." He wanted them to be good. Good together. _Stop drinking, John._

Sherlock looked unconvinced, which of course, he would be, he was a bloody genius. John gulped down another mouthful of beer. Strong, it was going down well.  

"I think I just need space occasionally," he murmured, not looking back to Sherlock, not wanting to see anything in his eyes, or to give away anything in his own.

He saw Sherlock move from the corner of his eye, standing up, moving back a step. John turned hurriedly to him. "I shouldn't have come," Sherlock said, in a rushed half-question. "I... John, you should have said something, I wanted to try and get to know this other side of you, but-"

"Sherlock, no, honestly, that's not what I meant," John started to explain, lowering his voice, a hand on Sherlock's wrist to stop him dashing off, glancing around them to ensure they weren't making a scene, but then not caring about that and ploughing on. "I was glad you came tonight, I _am_ glad... I'm just being an idiot. Stay, please."

Now Sherlock really did look confused and John could have shouted in frustration at his inability to handle this, _any_ of this. His friend was at a loss because he didn't usually put himself in these situations - John's revelations had drawn Sherlock out, but now John had made him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he finally said, his hand slowly slipping from Sherlock's wrist. "If you want to go, I'm about ready to get back anyway."

Sherlock frowned and looked back to where they had left Mike at a little table near the stairs. "Maybe one more drink? I promise to attempt to be more... socially adept."

John chuckled. "You don't need to change, Sherlock, I'll just try to get my head out of my arse."

They rejoined Mike and spent the next several minutes trying to define which current news stories Sherlock believed and which he thought were fictional. When they moved on to comparing stories about John, he tried to appreciate them for what they were and not turn into the grumpy arse he had been previously.

Finally, John drank up the last of his pint and eased back in his chair. "I think that's me," he said through a stretch. "Let's do this again, when I have more energy."

They said their farewells to Mike at the door, and John and Sherlock stood on the pavement as Mike went off for his train.

"So, tube or taxi?" John asked, as they both shuffled their feet. He was feeling tipsy, not unpleasantly, just nicely drunk. Sherlock was looking a little flushed in the low light coming from the pub and from the overhead lights.

"Walk?" Sherlock suggested, and John looked up at the sky for some reason, cloud check maybe? He didn't even know.

"Why not," he said, and turned to lead the way along the street. 

***

"Because when you said 'adventure', I wasn't sure if you meant being out on the streets, actually tackling real life... or this, playing Monopoly."

Sherlock just chuckled. "It's your turn, John." 

John rolled the dice. "Dammit, why is it always jail?" he huffed, and moved his silver boot over to the appropriate square for the fourth time.

Sherlock picked up a card and waved it enticingly in John's face. "My offer still stands," he sing-songed, and John narrowed his eyes at him. "Get Out Of Jail card for Mayfair."

"Nuh-uh, you can keep it. I will land on Park Lane, you just watch me."

Sherlock sat back, and after a moment John looked up and realised his friend was doing just that. He had swapped the card for his glass and was watching John as he took a sip.

"What?" John asked, frowning. Sherlock shook his head and smiled, and John found himself simply smiling back. "Well, all right then. Take your turn, Mr Detective."

Sherlock laughed again and John wanted to hear that all the time. He just had to try to avoid the sound making his heart twist so painfully. He picked up his own drink and waited for Sherlock to make his move.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an up and down chapter for poor John. More is coming soon :)

John was trying, he really was, not to question everything that Sherlock suggested. But now they were en route to Angelo's. The place of their first meal together - which, of course, was not a date. Definitely not a date. But what about this, right now? Sherlock had invited him to dinner after a long week, he had booked the table and here they were, with Sherlock holding open the door for John, and Angelo fussing around them as if they were honoured guests, as he always did with Sherlock, of course.

They settled into a corner table, Angelo brought out his candles but Sherlock stopped him. "Not necessary, thank you," he said. As an aside to John, he added, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, John."

"So, it's just dinner," John confirmed when they were alone.

"Yes, my treat, order whatever you'd like."

John smiled, hiding the disappointment that Sherlock hadn't imagined that they were on a date, even if just for the experience of it. He did appreciate Sherlock's easy manner and the confirmation that he was making about their friendship.

He ordered garlic bread and made sure Sherlock ate some too. Sherlock seemed less able to relax the longer they sat there and spent most of the time looking out of the window, only looking at John to answer a question. Instead of feeling irritated though, John could only admire his friend. He was putting himself through these awkward experiences and although John didn't fully understand why, he appreciated it. Trying to get him to talk about something other than work proved to be tricky. John decided to give up on trying to engage him and talked randomly about his day instead, laughing to himself about how many times his receptionist had needed to stop an elderly man from barging straight into the surgery, ending up more stressed than John by the end of the morning. Eventually, John realised that Sherlock was watching him, just looking at him, arms folded, slight smile on his lips. John smiled back, pleased that he had managed to get his friend to relax a little. Angelo brought out their food and they each had pasta in a pesto cream sauce. It was delicious.

What wasn't delicious was the worry that this was it, that Sherlock was never going to get beyond this friendship stage and John was destined to be pining forever. He swallowed down some wine and tried to focus on what they had. Their friendship was perfect, if he really thought about it. They argued, they laughed, they had dinner, they had adventure - what more could John really ask for?

And yet, as he looked back up into his friend's face, he knew - this man was the one. John had never felt anything to rival this deep-rooted love for another person. But then, who said fairytales needed a happy ending? Maybe the best bit was the life, the living for the moment? Maybe John could do without anything more, and the physical side..? Well, he had his hand.

He really wanted to hold Sherlock's hand across the table. Instead he reached for his glass. Empty. Of course. John cleared his throat, Sherlock was watching him. "So," John started, genuinely at a loss now and feeling unsettled about that. Sherlock waited patiently for him to go on. "Greg," he blurted. "Haven't seen him lately, has he run out of work?"

"I told him I've got my hands full for a while."

"You did?" Sherlock nodded and reached for his water glass. "And have you?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply.

Ok, so he was keeping the cases to himself these days? John had been spending more time at the surgery, but maybe, if it was working out for them both, maybe Sherlock needed to do this on his own for a while? _Shit._ Where was he going wrong?

"Shall we get going?" John asked quietly, trying in vain to keep the desperate need that he had for more, out of his voice.

Sherlock nodded, a questioning look crossing his face but he called Angelo over without comment, and paid up while John was pulling on his jacket.

"See you boys again very soon, I hope?" Angelo said, as he shook Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, I imagine you will." Sherlock's answer was non-committal, doing nothing to lift John's thoughts - clearly Sherlock was undecided about whether regular platonic dinner dates were a good idea.

He tried not to be grumpy, he did. He smiled when he spoke, he responded in the right places when Sherlock talked. But by the time they were back in Baker Street, John was ready to stop for the night. He let Sherlock into the flat before him and finally let his face fall, rubbing at his eyes under the cover of closing the door behind them.

"John," Sherlock said softly, close behind him.

"Mmm?"

"That was pleasant, we should make plans for next week, if you'd like?"

John turned to him, not pretending he wasn't surprised. "Yeah, yes," he agreed.

"Ok, well, it's late."

Even more confusing. John nodded and watched Sherlock climb the stairs. He wanted to follow, he wished desperately that Sherlock had ended the night like an actual date. He needed a drink.

***

John's mood had been fixed now for days. He picked up his phone at the sound of the text alert and put it in his pocket without checking the screen. Sherlock looked over as John glanced up at him.

"Any reason you're ignoring your messages, John?" he murmured.

"No, no, just having a break that's all."

"That was the fifth one today."

"Was it?" John said, innocently.

"Yes," Sherlock said, going back to his reading.

John didn't reply. He'd read them eventually, but the last thing he needed at the moment was a reminder from his sister as to how difficult it was for his family to maintain contact with each other, without an ulterior motive. He didn't want to know any more about his sister's new woman, or how much money she needed, and he didn't want to answer questions about Sherlock. About John and Sherlock. Harry had always made assumptions about John, and up until very recently he had been able to tell her she was wrong, out of order - stop pushing it. Maybe that was why he couldn't bring himself to have the talk with her now. She would see through him immediately and know that she had been right all along. He wasn't ready to apologise when she should be the one apologising to him for using him all these years.

"If you need anything, John, you just have to ask."

"Mrs Hudson?" John said, eyebrow raised. He pushed away from the breakfast table and downed his coffee before clunking the mug back down.

"Not quite what I was getting at..." John heard Sherlock murmur as he walked away.

Work. That would help. Work, work, work.

***

"D'you think we're drinking too much?" John slurred, as they stumbled along Blandford Street, too far from home in this cold, even though, actually, if he'd been sober they could have made the walk back within a few minutes. This was going to take forever, but Sherlock was always wanting to walk these days. John thought that probably he'd realised John wasn't as fit as he had been and wanted to get him exercising. The alcohol probably wasn't helping any weight loss.

"I think _you_ drink too much," Sherlock said, ever honest.

"Hey, you ordered that second bottle, I had n-nothing to do with it."

"You had plenty to do with the contents," Sherlock assured him, as he took a faltering side step in John's direction.

"Woah there," John slurred, steadying his friend with an unsteady hand. Il Baretto had been a good, impromptu choice after finishing up at Scotland Yard, even if John had felt a little underdressed next to Sherlock in his ever-present suit. He was just glad that Sherlock wanted to involve him in his work still. His job was important to him, but being close to Sherlock mattered more, and a good case had the added benefit of taking his mind off other things.  

"You're gonna regret sharing," John told him, holding fast to Sherlock's elbow, completely failing to keep them any steadier.

"Where there's something to regret I'll be the first to admit it, John."

"Is that right? So, finishing off my cheesecake was a good plan was it? And swigging it down with the last of the wine?"

"John, please stop talking about what we consumed, I have never eaten so much in one sitting in my life."

"Good though, wasn't it?"

"I enjoyed it thoroughly," Sherlock said grandiosely, and he looked down to John's hand as John looked at him.

_Let go, let go..._

"Sorry," he mumbled, dropping his hand. He immediately swayed and this time Sherlock grabbed a hold of his arm and linked them together as they stumbled on.

They were quiet for a while and John explicitly took notice of every shop window and squinted at each crack in the pavement to avoid thinking too much on how much touching was occurring tonight. His shoulder had brushed against Sherlock's as they collected their coats in the restaurant. And he was fairly certain he had nudged a foot under the small table as they ate their starter. After that he had kept his feet firmly under his chair. And now it was dark and he could just about pretend that they were merely walking close beside each other and that Sherlock's warm, coat-covered arm was not pressed against his.

He was fine. And that had definitely not been a date.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is tiny but I do like it. Sherlock talks to himself and John talks to Mrs Hudson.

"...wouldn't hurt for him to do something... always me, making an effort... trying to establish-"

John heard Sherlock mumbling as he came through with his tea. "Mmmm?" he asked. "Establish what? New case, is it?"

Sherlock looked up at him from his chair. "Ah, no, nothing," he said.

"Nothing. Ok." John sighed inwardly and sat down in his own chair.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I was just thinking aloud," he said after a while before muttering, "No, it's all me. As usual."

"Huh?" John said, taking a sip from his mug.

"Nothing, John," Sherlock repeated, ruffling his hands through his hair.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked, dubiously, knowing that kind of questioning would usually get him nowhere.

"What?" Sherlock looked up at him. "Oh, nothing, no, I -" He stopped and shook his head in a display of confusion that John had rarely seen from his friend. "I thought you were enjoying our evenings out together," he finally said.

John put down his mug and nodded. "Yeah, yes, I have been," he agreed readily. He had never really thought that he and Sherlock would be spending any social time together, and so anything that they did which didn't involve a case was a bonus. "I also enjoy just sitting here together, you know, sharing a pot of tea, watching a film?"

Sherlock looked at him oddly, but didn't otherwise respond.

After a while John tried something else. "Do _you_ enjoy spending time out?" _With me_ he didn't add.

"It's a passable experience I suppose, I admit I enjoy the flavour of some of the drinks you've had me try. But as far as socialising goes, I can tolerate very few people for long enough to really make for pleasant company."

"Is that right," John mumbled into his tea. As far as he could tell, Sherlock only put up with John because he was sometimes useful to him on cases. He knew he was appreciated, and that had to be enough.

Sherlock was watching him and John was in no mood for games. He shifted to the edge of his seat to stand up and looked to his friend for a moment. "You don't have to keep making the effort Sherlock, it's ok. I get it."

"You do?"

"You're trying to be more socially acceptable, but if it's not you, that's ok. God knows, I'm the last person to give you advice on how to act on a night out. Why do you think I like a drink?"

"To make you more tolerant of your friends' behaviours?"

"It was a rhetorical question," John said, eyes to the ceiling. "I'm going downstairs for some air." He didn't wait. He went through to the kitchen, put his mug in the sink, sloshing the remnants of his tea down the drain, before about turning and heading for the stairs.

He didn't plan on talking any more tonight, but Mrs Hudson had that way of cornering him so easily and somehow he ended up being drawn back from the front door and was soon sitting at her kitchen table, plate of biscuits between them, as she sat with her chin in one hand and looked at him sadly.

"What is it, John?" she asked.

John picked up a Bourbon and looked at it instead of his landlady. "Is it just me, Mrs Hudson, or is Sherlock making more of an effort these days?"

"You'll need to be a bit more specific, dear, I have noticed he's brought his laundry downstairs more frequently."

John sighed at himself, at his inability to be honest and clear about anything. "Wait," he suddenly said. "He gives you his washing? What- ahh why am I even surprised." He shook his head and crunched on his biscuit. Mrs Hudson waited. "I mean, with... talking though, generally. Or about his feelings?"

"Have you two had a falling out?" Mrs Hudson asked, forehead scrunched in sympathy.

"No, no, not exactly." _Come on John, just get this out._ He cleared his throat. "I told Sherlock that I felt... _something_ for him. I wanted him to know, I didn't hope for anything in return-" He looked down, pulling a deep breath into his lungs, closed his eyes for a moment while he composed himself.

"Oh, John," Mrs Hudson said softly, and John felt her hand cover his on the table top. "What did he say?"

The whole conversation rushed through John's head again and he heard the words as if Sherlock was there with them. "He was honest." His voice wasn't shaking, not at all. "More coherent than I could ever be, said we already have all that he can give. And the worst of it is, I knew that already. There was no need to tell him, to spoil this." His words had grown angry as he got frustrated and he shook his head, apologised.

"John, you two have a special relationship. I've always seen it," Mrs Hudson said, and John raised his head to look at her again. "They way he looks at you, he'll never look at a single being in that way," she said decisively.

"You've known him for some time."

"Oh, years," she agreed with a wave of her hand. "And he has never once been affected by anything like he has by you."

John looked at her with his head tilted, trying to believe her words. He had never seen that. Sherlock dismissed him as often as he did everyone else in his life. Until this recent spate of socialising, and odd moodiness. "So, what should I do? He's really trying to make some sort of effort, coming out for drinks, dinner - he took me back to Angelo's, but he made sure to let us both know that it wasn't a date." Just as John had done the first time they'd been there together... "What the hell is he doing?"

He looked up at Mrs Hudson and she gave him a knowing look. "Just be patient with him. It does sound like he's trying to process what you told him. In his own way."

John heard himself chuckle and Mrs Hudson pushed the plate of biscuits further towards him. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."


	5. Five

John kept looking over his shoulder at each sound from the kitchen. Sherlock had already been in there for an hour and his occasional mutterings weren't exactly worrying, but John wanted to help and Sherlock had told him to stay where he was, he wanted to do this for John.

But Sherlock hadn't quite cleared up from his latest experiments and John had definitely seen some suspicious jars lined up on the counter earlier. He really, really wanted to believe they weren't there now while Sherlock was chopping carrots, or whatever he was doing.

After a few more minutes John had to check. He got up and edged slowly around the room, pretending to be searching for a book on the shelf, then switching off the television before adjusting the blanket over the back of his chair and turning to peer into the kitchen. "Oh, God."

Sherlock spun around at John's words and John looked away guiltily, but he had nowhere to go.

"John, I said I could handle this, please," he said, gesturing back into the lounge.

"Um, yes, ok." John stepped back a little before changing his mind. "Are you sure, though?" he asked, eyeing the jar on the counter closest to where Sherlock was, in fact, chopping carrots. John could imagine that those circular things inside were pickled onions, but he knew better. "Did you want me to clear up at all? Or..."

"John, I'm trying to make you a meal. Do you think you could let me get on?"

John apologised. It was fine. He could do it, he would do anything for Sherlock really, this wasn't a hard thing. He just had to sit at the table and eat a lovely dinner made by his best friend. He didn't need to worry about hygiene. He could eat without thinking of the eyeballs sitting next to the sink, and lined up along the back wall, in various different coloured liquids, there were loads of them. But it was fine.

He made sure and faced the other way when Sherlock called him back in to sit down at the table. He thought about anything but those things sitting on the counter, trying hard to make conversation, but Sherlock really wasn't responding much, he was concentrating.

Finally, Sherlock brought a candle to the table and put down a bowl of salad in the centre. John looked twice at the candle but didn't mention it. When Sherlock had suggested he cook for them both John hadn't dared to think he had anything in mind except some cooking practice. But there it was - a lit candle in between them at the neatly laid dinner table.

Sherlock sat opposite him and held up a large serving spoon. "Ahhhhh," he said, rubbing his hands together, a wide and slightly manic smile on his face. "Are you hungry, John?"

"Of course, yes, very much so."

"Pass me your plate, please," Sherlock said, and John handed it over. The plates were new. They had butterflies on them. The serving dish was new, or maybe borrowed from Mrs Hudson. And the way Sherlock was serving two portions of home-made lasagne - that was certainly new. John couldn't get over it, but he stayed calm. Dinner. It's just another dinner. And yet, somehow, this was so much more romantic than their dinners at recent restaurants had been. Maybe because they were currently sober and looking at each other over a flickering flame, and Sherlock was lifting a glass of white wine to toast. John quickly put down his fork and picked up his own glass, clearing his throat as he waited for Sherlock to speak.

"To another successful case, Dr Watson."

John blinked, thrown for a moment by both Sherlock's soft tone, as much as by his use of John's title. He clinked his glass to his friend's, careful to avoid the candle between them and didn't take his eyes from Sherlock's as he took a sip.

"Good wine," he said, inwardly kicking himself for not being able to come up with anything to say.

Sherlock nodded and then picked up his cutlery and waited for John to do the same. They ate in silence for a while, John's heart was racing a little and the kitchen was really rather warm, he tugged at his shirt collar and cleared his throat.

"Are you ok?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh- yeah, I'll just get a glass of water I think-"

Sherlock jumped up. "I'll get it," he said, and quickly filled a glass and passed it to him before reaching for a jug and filling it as well, placing it on the table beside John. "Did I forget anything else?" he asked.

When John looked at him, properly this time without turning away and trying _not_ to look, he saw how serious and concerned his friend actually was. "Sherlock, you didn't forget a thing, this is great, really, it tastes... great."

Sherlock didn't look convinced.

John tried again. "You did a gr-" he sighed, "a brilliant job here, it was a really nice idea, to finish the case like this. Especially," he added slowly, "since the _Lime Street Poisoner_ lured his victims onto dinner dates." He raised his eyebrows to see if Sherlock had actually done this deliberately, was attempting to get rid of him by practicing the same techniques, or if he really had thought nothing of it.

"John, this isn't anything to do with him. I wanted to do something for you, to say thank you for your friendship."

John gaped at him for a moment and then slowly put his full fork into his mouth. He barely tasted it; he couldn't think beyond what Sherlock was saying. "So, those jars over there, that's not part of the investigation..?"

"Please, will you stop trying to make a joke of this? I wanted to cook for you, there is no ulterior motive."

He was hurt, John had underestimated him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, sorry, I- you've taken me by surprise, that's all," he said. "This really is good," he added, through another mouthful.

"My mother's recipe," Sherlock said.

"Hmm," John nodded.

"Do you think," Sherlock started, quietly, as John looked at him cautiously. "Would you like to do this more often? Could you see yourself spending more time like this?"

John put down his fork and hid behind his wine glass for a while. "Yes, I would," he answered, when he could speak without his voice shaking.

***

"Look, I know you're trying, but it's ok, you don't need to check up on me."

The sharp voice in John's ear didn't exactly disagree, and as with each stilted call they had together, John couldn't find it in himself to be too bothered by that.

Harry and John had grown apart long before alcohol and divorces and more petty disagreements had come between them. John knew that for their parents' sake he should care more, but right now it felt as if she was fishing for cash and nothing more.

"Look, give me a week, I'll see what I can do." They said goodbye and John slid his thumb across the screen to end the call just as he looked up to see Sherlock standing in the open doorway to the kitchen. He looked concerned about something. "Oh, hi, everything ok?" John asked, as he stood up, slipping his phone into his back pocket.   

"Yes, how about you? Problem?" Sherlock asked, miming a phone with his thumb and little finger that despite himself John found funny.

With a smirk he shook his head. "No, it's nothing, thanks though," he added, when Sherlock's face fell.

Sherlock hummed and turned back to go into the kitchen. John needed to put his sister from his mind. He had an hour before his surgery but when he wandered into the kitchen to see what Sherlock was doing, he stood wide-eyed for a moment before deciding he would rather go into work early than deal with whatever it was the man was doing on that table. He backed out of the room with a plea for Sherlock to at least clean the table afterwards this time, and went to collect up his medical bag and coat.

Once again his friend had unwittingly diverted his mood with his quirkiness, and John would be forever grateful to him for always managing to do that.

When he got home later there was a blank cheque sitting on the little table by his chair in the living room, a bottle of bleach holding it in place. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John smiled and took the bottle back into the remarkably clean kitchen, returning the cheque to Sherlock's desk drawer before he made himself some tea. Sherlock was too generous and John wouldn't take his money. Not so that his sister could avoid her problems.


	6. Six

"Um, Sherlock, has Mrs Hudson been buying us new clothes?"

"Mmm?" Sherlock said, from where he was sprawled on the sofa, bare feet planted on the soft leather, head tilted towards John but not really appearing to see him. Sherlock hadn't been focusing on much lately and John knew he needed to find a decent case soon, although he was working, so John couldn't really see what the problem was.

"Only, there's a new shirt on my bed," he said, gesturing behind him, "and this morning there was a brand new pair of shoes sitting by my bedroom door."

Sherlock hummed at him again and looked away. "No idea, John," he murmured.

John put a hand on his hip, looked around the room, trying to find something to focus on other than Sherlock.

"Were they your size?" Sherlock asked, after a moment.

John frowned and looked back to his friend. "Huh?"

"The shoes."

"Yes, perfect," John admitted. Sherlock looked away and John stared at him for a moment and the thought crossed his mind that maybe the shoes were from him. What he couldn't work out was why.

***

John was still sleepy, rubbing his eyes in the doorway to the kitchen and doing a double-take. He knew the jumper, it's just that it was usually him wearing it, and not Sherlock. Sherlock was taller than him, obviously, but still John wouldn't have considered how much longer his torso was, until he watched his friend stretch to a top cupboard and witnessed the pale line of bare skin that was revealed beneath the blue and black stripes of the top. John drew in a breath and held it as Sherlock turned to him and then John coughed and thought about going back to bed.

"Morning," Sherlock said. "Tea?" he asked, as John stared.

His turn to speak. "Uh, yes, please," he managed. _Not hard, John, this is all fine._ But Sherlock was only wearing black trousers, along with John's jumper. The man had no socks on - this was killing him. "You, er, ran out of clothes?"

"Oh, ah, yes," Sherlock told him. "I need to do some washing."

"You mean Mrs Hudson's not back from the dry cleaners?"

Sherlock scowled. "Well, yes," he agreed. "Sorry, it smelled fresh and warm and... I put it on without thinking."

"I don't mind, you go ahead." _Please, yes, take more of my clothes, at least I can be close to you in some way._

He took the tea from Sherlock and tried to avoid watching his friend over the rim as he sipped at it.

This was becoming a serious problem.

***

On the off chance that he was right about the gifts, and because clearly Sherlock needed more clothes, John decided to get something for him. It really didn't matter whether the gifts were coming from Sherlock or not, John could still buy his friend something without issue, surely?

He decided on a new dressing gown since that was still Sherlock's preferred indoor wear. He spent a long time hunting down the perfect one online, before deciding he had to see it in person, so he set out to the shop after surgery the next day. It was perfect, soft, flowing dark purple silk, John almost wanted to try it on, but he was fairly certain of how ridiculous he would look.

As he watched the shop assistant wrap it, John began to feel a cold sweat creep up his back. He saw himself giving the present to Sherlock, saw his friend's face as he opened it. What if Sherlock got freaked out? They didn't do gifts, they just weren't those sort of friends. Sherlock wouldn't even tell John when his birthday was, and the only card John ever got was from his sister.

Maybe he should leave the damned dressing gown here, just forget the whole idea. But the girl had already rung up the sale and John found himself handing over his card and taking the bag from her when she was finished. He walked out of the shop, trying to pretend he was fine, the bag clutched in one hand. It was only a sodding dressing gown - Sherlock would either like it or not. It wasn't a big deal.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when John got back. No coat on the hook, empty tea mug in the sink - John knew it was now or never. He took his package out of the bag, admired the wrapping for a moment and then about-turned and strode up to Sherlock's bedroom door. The fact that it was closed was a worry for a split second, but it was such a fleeting thought that it had passed before his hand turned the doorknob and the door swung inwards.

John immediately realised he'd messed up when he saw the curtains closed and a pair of black tailored trousers hanging off the end of the bed. "Oh, God," he murmured, as he looked to his left and saw a sleep dishevelled and beautifully tousled Sherlock looking back at him from the bed. "What time is it?" Sherlock asked, hoarsely.

"Uh," John started, pushing his package behind his back.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, instantly awake as he tried to peer behind John's back.

"Nothing, sorry, I- I'll leave you to sleep, sorry..."

"John," Sherlock said, as John attempted to back out of the room. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John repeated.

"Is that for me?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned, shaking his head. "No."

"Really?" Sherlock said sarcastically. "And you came rushing in here for what other reason?"

"I thought you were out," John said, desperate to just leave. "For God's sake, I knew this was an awful idea."

Sherlock had sat up against the headboard and was just staring at John now.

John's heart was thudding painfully as he slowly brought the parcel to his front and took a step towards the bed. He dropped it down beside Sherlock - still staring - and muttered, "If it's no good I can return it, just thought you could use it."

Sherlock was frowning when John glanced up but he didn't hang around, he nodded and tried to clear the emotion from his face, knowing what he must look like, as he backed out of the room and closed the door with a quiet snick behind him. He stood for a moment, hands going to his face and he released a silent groan. That was so much bloody worse than what he had feared would happen.

John was still feeling like a twat when Sherlock came into the living room. He was wearing pants. Blue, tight, leave-nothing-to-John's-vivid-imagination, pants. Flowing around his lithe frame was the new dressing gown.

The man was beautiful.

And John had made a terrible mistake making Sherlock wear something so sexy, something that John had bought for him. He swallowed hard as Sherlock flopped onto the sofa.

"So..." he finally said in a strangled tone."Fits then?"

Sherlock looked across to him, his head resting on the cushion. "Yes, thank you John, it was very thoughtful of you."

John felt a small smile turn his lips up. He relaxed a little for the first time since this morning. "It looks good." _Really good._ The colour was amazing on him - John had known it would be. But the fear of the gift itself was enough for him to have questioned the whole thing all day. Seeing Sherlock wearing it now was good. It was all ok. Did he have to be so naked underneath? Probably not, but John really couldn't complain.

Sherlock shifted and rolled towards John. The dressing gown slipped and John tried to look away but all he could see was pale skin, a lean, muscled stomach and the hugely distracting flash of blue cotton.

"I didn't expect you to reciprocate you know," Sherlock said, watching John.

John swallowed. "I wanted-" he had to clear his throat. "Wanted to say thanks," he finished pitifully.

Sherlock held his eye and he nodded, somehow an understanding was shared between them, although John really had no idea what that understanding was. He was just as confused as ever, and knowing that Sherlock had bought him those clothes, had chosen to give John undoubtedly his new favourite pair of shoes, for no apparent reason other than that he was suddenly just a nice person? John needed to go.

He stood and smoothed down his shirt, cleared his throat and mumbled, "I'll... uh... I'm gonna have an early night." Why was he even saying that? They didn't normally feel the need to give each other the rundown on bed times.

Sherlock just nodded again and turned his face to the ceiling, eyes closing.

Sherlock didn't leave his mind as John prepared for bed, when he lay down, his hand rubbing over his cock as he closed his eyes. Sherlock was right there while he stroked himself through his underwear, watching John, just watching while John's hand went inside his pants, his fingers gripping in just the right place to get himself off as fast as possible.

John's breath began to come in shallow huffs as he pulled at his cock, toes curling, legs stretched out as he found his rhythm, hips giving erratic thrusts into his fist, other hand clutching the sheets as his orgasm hit and he came with a gasp, his pent-up tension released along with his cum.

He lay back, sagging into the mattress and heard his name through the somewhat calming sound of blood rushing to his ears. It was dream Sherlock, calling to him.

"John." No, it was the real man, calling upstairs. John got his breath back while Sherlock called his name again. "Have to go out - Charing Cross - new lead."

"You need a hand?" John managed, but all he heard in return was descending footsteps and the dull thud of the heavy front door two floors below him.

Charing Cross at... 1am? Bloody hell. Bloody Sherlock. And now John was wide awake again, needed to clean up before he could go chasing after his never-still-for-a-minute partner.

He sighed out loud, threw back his duvet and thought that at least Sherlock would be fully dressed when he saw him again. Hopefully.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another non-date and a surprise visit.

_Gielgud Theatre_  
7pm  
Meet in the foyer  
SH

John read the text vaguely before putting his phone down and continuing on with his paperwork. Must be a case, but Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything. Still, it wasn't unusual for something to crop up that Sherlock simply _had_ to get into, and John had nothing on so he'd go along with it.

He worked solidly for the next hour and a half, forgot the time, missed any opportunity for food and huffed and sighed a little as he packed up and set off for the tube at a fast walk.

He made up time with an extra train instead of walking the final distance and eventually strolled into the theatre foyer at 18.55. He spotted Sherlock immediately, his back to the door. John walked up alongside him. "Evening," he said.

"Ah, John, glad you made it," Sherlock said, turning around to him. "Would you like a drink before we go in? We still have a few minutes."

"Yes, great," John said, looking around them. The bar was spacious and they took stools by the window.

"Long day?" Sherlock asked as they drank.

John nibbled on some peanuts. "Yeah, just a usual Thursday I suppose, nothing too tricky."

"Good, good," Sherlock said.

He was looking sort of... John couldn't put his finger on it - out of sorts. "How about you?" he asked, never expecting much in the way of detail, but maybe one day Sherlock would surprise him.

"Um, yeah, yes, it was a good day, I suppose, a couple of leads on the new case."

"And that's why we're here?" John asked, flicking over the performance notes in his hands. _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_. Intriguing to see how they would put this on stage.

Sherlock was just looking at him when he caught his eye. "Shall we go in?" he said, and he stood up while John drained the last of his wine.

"After you," John said, and he followed Sherlock to their seats.

It was an enjoyable first half, a story John had enjoyed ever since his first read years ago, a go to book when he couldn't sleep. Come to think of it, it was quite the coincidence that Sherlock had a case involving this theatre, this particular play.

"So," he murmured, as they ate ice cream during the interval. Sherlock had insisted on going off to buy some from the foyer. "Who is it, one of the actors? A stagehand?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"The case," John said, voice lowered. "Who are we looking for?"

"We're just watching the play," Sherlock said slowly.

John stared at him. It wasn't a case. It was another non-date? So well-organised this time that John hadn't even considered it was anything but work. But apparently Sherlock had gone for pre-arranged this time, not just a spontaneous restaurant, but an actual booking of tickets, inviting his friend beforehand, not-spontaneous, non-date. Oh. And John hadn't even realised.

"Well, this is great," he said, too loudly. "The guy playing Christopher is remarkable."

Sherlock nodded and smiled a little when John looked back to him. "I had hoped you would enjoy it."

John felt the happiness filter through him, warming him more than alcohol ever could. Sherlock had really come up with something special this time - personal, meaningful. He was showing true friendship and John was humbled. He would do something in return; try to show Sherlock that he could be as good a friend to him. Not just a pining wreck of a man.

He relaxed into the second half, knowing the real reason for being here and so glad of it. He stole a look towards Sherlock whenever he could, so close beside him, apparently as taken in by the production as John was. John wanted to hold him, touch his hand, put an arm around him as he could see other couples doing. He kept both hands firmly in his lap, mirroring Sherlock's position beside him.

The feeling in his stomach was only heightened when the end of the play came and Sherlock turned wondrous eyes on him, asking how he felt, wanting to hear John's opinions. He was chivalrous as they left their seats, holding John's coat as he put it on, leading him off the balcony, through the dispersing audience, holding doors open.

Finally, they spilled out onto Shaftesbury Avenue and headed for the tube. Everything was bright despite the late hour; London was never really dark. The lights of the tube did make John squint though as they waited on the platform. He was tired, but exhilarated. Couldn't stop the smile he had had for the last couple of hours. Sherlock let him into the carriage and they took an empty row of seats, Sherlock's thigh pressed against John's even though there was plenty of space. John warmed even more.

He needed to question his friend, find out exactly what Sherlock was thinking, doing all this, having such an appearance of being on a date with his boyfriend. But John couldn't allow himself to hope that far, and he couldn't risk spoiling the night. He would continue to enjoy whatever Sherlock came up with. To question would be detrimental, John was sure of it, and he refused to put either of them on the spot again as he had those several weeks ago.

But he did allow a tiny spark to ignite, marvelling over the thought that Sherlock might actually, seriously, be considering this - considering them.

***

"John? John!"

John rushed into the kitchen to see what was so urgent, expecting flames at the very least. "What is it?"

"The kettle, John, the kettle!" Sherlock stated loudly.

"Oh, right, tea please," John said, with a slight shrug.

"No, John, it is not possible to make tea until we replace the kettle." He brandished it at John. It rattled.

"Broken?" John asked, and Sherlock shook it again.

"Yes... I may have dropped it," Sherlock admitted a little more calmly.

"Oh," John said, understanding dawning.

"So, let's go, get your coat," Sherlock demanded.

John checked his watch. 21:50. "Ok, well, give it another twelve hours and we'll head out," he said, turning to leave the room.

"What d'you mean, twelve hours? John, I need tea!"

John looked back to his irate friend. "It's nearly ten-pm, it's Sunday, Sherlock. We can't buy a kettle tonight."

"But... my tea!" Sherlock complained, still clutching the kettle as if it could help him now.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Specifically asked not to be disturbed."

"Really? Why's that?" John asked.

"Don't distract me John, maybe she's reading a racy novel, I don't know - I need tea!"

John blinked and shook his head, trying to displace that particular image. "Sherlock, seriously - you can boil water on the hob, just get a pot out."

"It won't be the same, there's no filter," Sherlock grumbled.

With a giving-up sigh, John waved Sherlock into the living room. "Go and sit down, I'll make the tea."

Sherlock finally put the broken kettle back on the counter and huffed off while John got out a pot. He made sub-standard tea and took it into the living room. He couldn't complain about Sherlock's renewed obsession with his tea. It wasn't drugs and that was all that mattered to John.

***

John was late to work the next morning, making a fresh pot of tea to help Sherlock through the first couple of hours of the day, and popping in to ask Mrs Hudson if she could please make sure Sherlock didn't run out of tea before John got home with a new kettle.

His busy morning was made worse by several missed calls from Harry. He couldn't respond so he had to keep her in the back of his mind all day and hope that she had received the cash the other week and was just calling to say thanks.

Back at home, Sherlock greeted him as usual from his desk, looking not quite as fatigued as John had expected. Perhaps he had managed to go shopping himself and got the damn kettle? And that thought reminded John that he had in fact forgotten to buy one himself on his way home. He had been so caught up with trying to return his sister's calls and making sure he had all his paperwork finished after the surgery had closed for the day.

"I'm sorry, I forgot the kettle," he admitted.

"No problem John, I feel quite well caffeinated at the moment."

"Ok," John drew out, wondering why Sherlock was so calm and happy.

"You had a visitor today," Sherlock added.

"I did?" John said, looking around as if whoever it was might still be there. "But I wasn't here," he added pointlessly.

"I discovered that within a short time, yes. But your sister didn't seem to mind."

"Harry was _here_?" John said, anger instantly flooding him. "What did she say? What did _you_ say?"

"We talked about common interests, she seems nice. What did you say happened between you two?"

"I didn't," John ground out. "What common interests?" he asked.

"Well, you, mainly."

"I can't believe she came here. You didn't give her anything, did you?" John asked, failing to reign in his temper even though Sherlock didn't deserve it.

"I couldn't even offer her tea, now could I," Sherlock told him. "So I took her downstairs for one."

John put a hand over his eyes in despair. "You took my sister out for tea?"

"I really didn't think you would be this upset, John."

John sighed loudly. "It's the alcohol," he said, deliberately avoiding any preamble as to why he and his sister didn't get on. "Mostly that. And the way she treats people because of it. It's not been good."

He raised his eyes to his friend and Sherlock was frowning.

"I'm sorry, John."

"My fault. I didn't ever expect her to just turn up here. I would have told you more about her if I'd known."

"Would you?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably not, no," John said immediately.

"She didn't ask for money," Sherlock clarified. "She did ask whether we were a couple."

John felt the colour drain from his face. "She what?"

"Hmm, don't worry though, I told her that of course we weren't."

"Ah, right. Yes. Good." A bad day had just got a whole lot worse with those few words. John pulled himself together. Sherlock had every right to deny anything between them, especially to someone he had only just met. They weren't a couple. They had never been a couple. And John had to keep reminding himself of that so that he didn't hurt himself any further.

He straightened his shoulders, not looking at Sherlock again as he said, "Let's go and get this kettle then. I need a drink."

Shopping with Sherlock. At least the day might end on an amusing note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! :D


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short but I think I like it that way. *whispers* 9 is on its way too

"What is the point of a relationship? Why can't two people just be friends, spend time together in the same place, what more does there need to be?"

John was mid-sip of his tea and he took a long gulp before putting his cup down and pushing his chair back a little from the breakfast table. "Are you talking to me?" he finally asked.

Sherlock ruffled his newspaper and looked at John across the top before putting it down in front of him. "Yes, of course, is there anyone else here?" he asked.

John looked around the lounge with wide, almost hopeful eyes. "Nope," he drew out.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded.

"Um..."

"What more is there, John?" Sherlock asked again.

 _Well, shit_. Now John was forced to think of his past - failed - relationships, in which he had ended up having little to nothing in common with any of them, after the initial physical side of the relationship inevitably lessened. "Um," he said again. "Sex."

Sherlock frowned at him. "You have had more sex with yourself than you've had with any woman," he said, and John nearly fell off his chair.

"What?" he spluttered. "Sherlock, what the-"

"Why is it that so many women have come and gone in your life, John?"

"I... well-"

"Because, I put it to you, that without any physical connection between you and half the women of London, there would have been no relationship to begin with."

"Hold on, I was having breakfast, and now you're attacking my personal life?"

"I'm not attacking you, John. I'm merely asking that you consider the facts."

"That I'm a serial failure when it comes to relationships? I already knew that."

"I think it's fair to say that you started these relationships the wrong way around," Sherlock continued on, apparently oblivious to John's discomfort, or maybe just enjoying it. "Did you make friends with any of these women first? Was there anything between you that made you enjoy their company, first and foremost, as opposed to their bodies?"

"Well, no," John admitted. He needed to head this off before Sherlock could get any deeper. "But see, until you've experienced it... I mean," he was fumbling. "Ok, how about you? Have you ever... um, been with anyone?"

Sherlock frowned harder and he slowly shook his head. "No," he finally said, and John had never experienced the thing his chest did at that moment.

He put his fist to his sternum and tried to breathe through it without drawing attention to the fact that he was struggling.

"Not after... I turned someone down once, at University," Sherlock told him softly. "Since then I've stayed away. He wasn't someone I could ever have considered a friend, and certainly nothing more than that."

John wanted to punch the git, whoever he was. But he stayed calm. "At least it's not a memory to regret," he tried.

"Exactly. The past is just that. But I would never want a memory to regret, with you," he added a little shakily. "When I consider it, it makes me concerned that we would end up just like all those others in your past."

John frowned, shaking his head, managing words from somewhere despite the sudden change of direction here. "No, no that would never happen," he said firmly. "What we have... Sherlock, you and I, we're friends. When friends become... more than that, then surely they have a strong foundation to build on?" He was desperate. Sherlock couldn't let John's past affect their future. It wasn't fair, especially not since he was discounting his own past so readily.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, lips pouting as he looked down at the table.

John wanted to reach across and yank him over their breakfast things so he could show him just what friends could do if they both wanted it.

"So your past, is also firmly in its place?" Sherlock asked, tentatively.

"Absolutely," John said, with complete conviction. "What we have has no correlation to anything I've had before. I promise you," John said, leaning on his elbows, as close to Sherlock as he could manage with this barrier still between them.

Sherlock nodded. "Ok."

 _Ok?_ John was not ok.

***

They had nothing on that morning and so they had more tea, sat side by side on the sofa and watched a repeat of a David Attenborough documentary. It was nice, relaxing. Or rather, it would have been nice and relaxing if it hadn't been for their morning confessions.

John felt as if they were a step further towards something important, but he still wasn't sure what exactly. It was going to have to come from Sherlock now, there was nothing more John could add.


	9. Nine

What exactly did Sherlock think John did all day? The man scowled across the waiting room as John held the door for his next patient, he was tapping his watch when John closed the door, as if John should just hurry all this unnecessary business along.

Ten minutes later, it was the same thing again, Sherlock was still there. This time he was on his phone, no doubt answering a bloody Twitter message or responding to Lestrade about a case. So why couldn't he do that at home?

John tried to block him out so he could concentrate, but Sherlock and more specifically what they had talked about, the whole thing was on his mind constantly. Having Sherlock here was almost helpful, in a way, because John could pretend he was simply irritated by him, rather than wishing they were back at home, together, alone. He had a long drink of water, told himself to stop it, get on with his work.

When he opened the door next time to see Sherlock was talking to poor Mr Willets, John called over to Mary to please swap his next patients. She jumped up and went straight over to rescue the man, Sherlock giving her a glare as she extracted the patient and escorted him to John's door.

"Thanks Mary," he said, and then lowering his voice, "Has he said anything else? You did tell him I have a full practice today?"

"I did, yes, he just said the flat's too cold and he'd rather wait here for you."

John sighed and Mary gave him an encouraging look. "At least he hasn't brought a client with him this time," she said.

John nodded, "True." Mary went back to her desk. She had only a week left to work her notice and John would miss the ease of their routine during his surgeries. He didn't expect his next receptionist would be so willing to handle Sherlock.

John opened his door with increasing trepidation as the afternoon wore on. When he found Sherlock curled up across three chairs, the patients all regarding him with a mixture of concern and clear disapproval, John couldn't bring himself to wake his friend - at least he was keeping out of trouble.

He asked Mary to make a cup of tea for when he woke up, and handled his next three appointments as quickly as he could.

The final straw was when he led his last patient back into the waiting room and Sherlock was tearing out pages from a medical subscription magazine and making a tiny set of origami animals on their way into a paper 'Ark'.

"Sherlock, what the-" John began in tired frustration. "Why?" he asked, flopping his hands by his sides.

"I was bored?" Sherlock said.

"For the entire day?"

"Yes, I really don't know how you manage it, John. Is this really a fulfilling day's work for you? How do you stay awake?"

"Sherlock, I have patients to look after, I don't sit here making bloody puppet shows, and asking impossibly rude questions about other people's bathing habits."

"Well, I think you maybe should, that man was _ripe_ , John, he really needed someone to point it out."

John ran his hands through his hair and held them there while he gaped at Sherlock. "Is this going to be a regular thing? Because I'm sure between us we can find something else for you to do."

"Yes, Mary did mention she was leaving, do you have an application form for the role?"

John laughed a little hysterically and grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, hustling him out of the front doors and locking them behind him while he went back to clear up his desk.

Of course, Sherlock was waiting for him outside when John emerged. He gave a long sigh but he was pleased to have his company on the way home.

"Ok, so what's happened to the heating and why didn't you just light a fire?" he asked as they set off.

"Light a fire? I thought that was your job?" Sherlock said with a grin. "I left Mrs Hudson dealing with the engineers, I have no idea what happened after the pipe exploded in the bathroom."

"Exploded? What were you doing in there?"  

"Nothing I haven't done before. There was less sodium this time, maybe that's where I went wrong..." Sherlock mused as they wandered. 

***

Amongst other topics on their way home, Sherlock brought up Harry again. He had received an email from her, desperate for another visit with John and trying to get Sherlock to persuade him. 

Over his anger now, since the last time they talked about his sister, John asked, "What do you think? Should I give her another chance?"

Sherlock watched him as he considered. "Only if you think it will help. Mycroft and I, we've had our differences of course, but he's always been there to pull me out... when I needed him."

John nodded. He knew how important that was. He had been there for Sherlock too. It was time he stepped up for his own sister, no matter how unreliable she had been before. John hadn't been there for her when he was in Afghanistan, but Harry's life had turned to crap at much the same time as John's had. The difference was, Harry hadn't had a Sherlock to put her life back on track. John needed to help her now, if he possibly could.

"I'll call her, arrange something," he said quietly, as they rounded the corner onto Baker Street, Tesco bag in hand carrying their dinner.

"Oh, God," John cried, opening the front door to see several workmen repairing the mess that clearly emanated from Sherlock's earlier bathroom experiment. "Sherlock, you didn't tell me you made a hole in the floor."

"Didn't I?" Sherlock murmured, setting off up the stairs.

John just shook his head, and thanked the stars above for his ridiculous life, as he followed behind.

***

John called his sister that night, worrying that he would change his mind if he didn't do it straight away.

They met at Speedy's for breakfast and Harry seemed relaxed, sober, keen to show John that she was ok, she was trying. John gave her cash, all he could manage.

"This is it now - come off the drink," he told her quietly. "I'll help you through rehab, but I'm not funding anything else, not anymore." He felt the emotion in his throat before the tears came and Harry took his hand, passed him a tissue.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I promise to try. For you."

John looked at her through damp lashes. "Do it for yourself this time, ok?"

Harry nodded and John could see beyond the sad eyes to the little girl he had taught to jump from the garden wall into the compost heap, ridden bikes to the park with, helped up when she fell. Family. That was all John had ever dreamed about. Maybe they could get some of that back?

Sherlock was waiting when John got home. He stood quickly when John came in and could obviously see the recent distress. He stopped short of John's personal space and asked, "Will she do it?"

"I have no idea. It would be a first if she did."

"I'll keep an eye on her John, you don't have to worry."

"Why? I don't want to burden you as well," John said, already regretting how far he had let Sherlock into this.

"I want to," Sherlock said simply.

John took a shaky breath, thanked him and walked heavily across to his chair. He could have done with one of Sherlock's crazy experiments to take his mind off things. He would settle for tea and just sitting with his friend for a while. Sherlock seemed to know just what he needed and it wasn't long before they were discussing a recent case and John could start to unwind. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Mary. I popped her into this story in the smallest way possible, just as I would have preferred in the show. No Mary hate here, I just think short and sweet is good ;)


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting months to get to this chapter <3

"John, are you there?"

John looked up at the slightly panicked sound of Sherlock's voice from the hall.

"Yeah, in here, Sherlock," he answered, standing up as Sherlock came into the room. He was clutching at his right shoulder and looking pained. "What happened?" he said, moving to take hold of Sherlock's good arm and help him on to the sofa.

"Ah, just an argument with someone bigger than me," Sherlock told him vaguely, flinching as John started removing his coat and jacket.

"Sorry," John said. "Just try to relax so I can get a look."

"Just a sprain, I think," Sherlock said.

"Hmm, well there's no blood, that's one thing."

John pulled away the collar of Sherlock's shirt but he already knew he would need to get it off. "Um, do you mind?" he asked carefully. "I need to see the joint."

"No, ah... do whatever you need to."

John very carefully began unfastening Sherlock's buttons, very cautiously avoiding any direct skin contact and definitely avoiding eye contact, as he gingerly peeled back the fabric over a pale, freckled shoulder that sent John's heart into an immediate flutter. He forced his suddenly fogged up brain into doctor mode and set about some gentle prods and presses around where Sherlock said it hurt.

"Ok, you're all right. It is just a sprain. Lie down and I'll get an ice pack."

He still hadn't made eye contact, and as he stood up Sherlock's hand shot out and John met his eyes as Sherlock grasped his wrist. "Thank you," he said, easing back into his shirt.

It was still open though and John allowed his gaze to drift over his friend's chest. He swallowed hard. "Tell me where you're going next time?" he asked in a whisper, nearly shaking with the need to touch.

"Yes, I promise. John, look at me, please?" Sherlock said.

John looked. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. This was hardly a serious injury and Sherlock probably didn't need John's help at all, but the fact that he had asked... he had let John indulge, it meant a lot.

John looked. He saw a man he would never have dreamed of. Someone he admired and respected beyond measure. A man whose actions, whose company caused John both joy and pain and he wouldn't change anything - not one thing about Sherlock. He was so grateful to have him at all. John wiped at his eyes.

"I tripped on the tube, blundering after a bag-snatcher."

John frowned. "Blundering? That's not like you at all," he said.

"Well, I've been out of sorts lately. Too much on my mind, distracting me from work." He didn't sound his normal irritated self about that either.

John frowned harder and sat down beside him. "Is it..." God, he was being presumptive. "Is it me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied at once, and John thought he might be sick. "But, more realistically, it's me, thinking about you. It's not you that is the problem."

"It's not you, it's me," John said flatly. "Really? Already? You've only made me dinner once, is it really all that bad?" He was mocking himself, their situation, because what else could he do?

"John, I think it might be that bad."

"Well, shit," John let out in a whisper. He had known for a while, of course, that Sherlock was working it through, processing it, but the thought of him coming up with the two of them separating - he held his breath, not able to think beyond this moment, to let himself fall into the chasm of devastation that would be Sherlock telling him it was over.

Sherlock turned to face him, wincing as his shoulder pulled.

"Ice," John remembered.

"No, wait," Sherlock said, but nothing more immediately followed. "I'm still no good at this, am I?" he finally asked.

John shook his head slowly. "That makes two of us," he murmured.

"I think, we may need to be even closer, if I'm to succeed in my work, as well as in a relationship with you," Sherlock said slowly.

John blinked at him, not sure he had heard that right. "Closer, yeah," he said, wide-eyed. "Closer is good. You mean more cases together, letting me know there's trouble before it happens, that kind of thing?" he rambled on.

"No, John, I mean I might be ready to explore further... what we could have together."

"Fuck," John breathed. "Ice." He got up.

"My shoulder's fine," Sherlock told him.

"It's for me," John muttered, as he made his way to the kitchen. He swiftly poured out a generous measure of whiskey, dropped a couple of ice cubes in from the freezer tray and grabbed the frozen peas while he was there. He gulped some of the alcohol as he wandered back to where Sherlock was sitting, waiting. He pressed the peas to Sherlock's shoulder and just about waited until Sherlock moved a hand to hold it in place before flopping down beside him and taking another deep swig of his drink. It burned pleasantly on the way down and he groaned softly.

"John, are you ok?"

"I'm just trying to understand you. That's a lot easier with some of this," he said, clinking the ice in his glass a little, before regretting his statement immediately. "I'm sorry," he added.

"Do you mind talking about this?" Sherlock asked.

John pursed his lips and breathed in through his nose, eyes closed, head back against the cushions for a second. "No," he finally said. "No, no, it's fine."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"It's ok, I have this," John said, ice clinking again. But as he looked over to see Sherlock's expression, he melted. "We're ok, you know? Whatever this is between us, it's ok. I'm happy if you're happy."

"I'm..." Sherlock started, and looked down to his toes while John watched him. "I've noticed that you've not been dating," Sherlock continued bluntly.

"Uh, well, no." He had no other response - facts were facts, no deductions required.

"Not since the day you told me how you felt about me."

"I don't need anyone - anyone else," John said awkwardly, tilting his head towards his friend. "This is enough for me."

Sherlock was quieter when he spoke again. "John, I feel that I've come to be more aware of certain things, recently. Of your feelings, certainly, of my own feelings-"

"You have feelings? Sorry, not the time, go on." John rested his chin on his hand, the other clutching his drink and wrapped loosely around his waist as he listened.

"I feel as if we do share something that I wasn't aware of before. Something I've not had before, which is why it's taken me so long to understand it."

John chewed on his lip, hard enough to stop him rushing ahead with his spiralling thoughts.

Sherlock gently dropped the peas on to the coffee table and turned further towards John. John straightened up, clearing his throat.

"John, do you still feel anything towards me?"

John nearly choked, couldn't take breaths deep enough because his heart was pounding so hard. "Sherlock..." he whispered, "I can't-" He put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezing hard as he drew in what air he could and held it, before letting it out in a rush. "Yes, of course I do, you idiot," he said brokenly.

Sherlock's eyes were closed when John dared to open his again. John reached out to him, put his hand on Sherlock's good shoulder. "I promise you, I won't ever feel this way about anyone else."

Sherlock opened his eyes and John moved back an inch. "Why?" Sherlock asked. "Why would you single me out so definitively?"

"Why does anyone? It's called 'love' Sherlock, and love doesn't allow us to choose the recipient. It just... _is_."

"But you should have a family, you deserve-"

"No." John cut him off quickly. "Please, don't do that. I know what I have, Sherlock, I know who I am now." He squeezed his hand into Sherlock's shoulder. "It took me this long to get here, I want to stay, if you don't mind. And the only family I need is right here."

Sherlock let out a sigh and John didn't dare to move in case he spoiled the moment, but his hand slowly slipped from his friend's shoulder when Sherlock didn't respond further.

"Do you think we could try something?" Sherlock asked, tentatively.

John nodded. Whatever Sherlock wanted he could have.

"I want to be as close to you as possible, John, I don't want you to miss out on anything that you could have with someone else." John shook his head but Sherlock held up his hand to stop any argument. "Please, let me explain."

"Ok," John said, concerned.

"I don't know what I can give to you, physically. It's not something that I've ever considered for more than a fleeting moment, before very recently. But I'm drawn to you, John, I am."

John wanted to turn away, cover his warming face, but he didn't. He smiled a little at Sherlock's beautiful words and tried to breathe through his tightened chest.

"I wanted to ask if we could try sharing a bed."

John gasped a little and covered it with his hand, clearing his throat before he answered quickly, "Yes, yeah, we should do that."

Sherlock frowned a little. "I'm not sure what I'm ready for, I really have no idea, I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't apologise, Sherlock, I'm not expecting anything from you, there's no pressure here, ok?"

"Thank you, John."

"Would you come here," John finally said, and he pulled Sherlock into a hug, so grateful for the warmth and strength when Sherlock's arms surrounded him. "Whatever you want," he whispered against Sherlock's cheek. "I'll be here."

They stayed that way for as long as it took for John's heart to calm. Eventually, he patted Sherlock on the back. "Whatever you want," he murmured again as he pulled back.

"Thank you," Sherlock said again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued.
> 
> (I have to add- when John says Sherlock's the only family he needs... I nearly cried when Sherlock told Mycroft that John was family in S4, because I wrote this chapter at the end of last year :D)


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is finally bed-sharing.

"'Morning," John croaked sleepily, wandering into the kitchen. "Why are you awake so early?"

Sherlock wouldn't normally be out of bed by now and here he was, busy with something that thankfully didn't look like his normal experiments. They hadn't elaborated on the bed-sharing thing last night, he hadn't dared to press the issue. John had woken several times reliving their hug, wishing he could hold Sherlock in his arms again. Sherlock had finally made a decision about their situation, but that didn't stop the turmoil in John's head wondering what would happen from here. Maybe today he would bring it up again, but for now, he needed to eat.

He shuffled to the bread bin and pulled out a couple of slices, but as he reached for the toaster Sherlock plucked them from his hand.

"Hey!"

"Nope, you sit down John, I've got breakfast sorted," Sherlock told him, shooing him away.

John frowned and rubbed at his face while he looked longingly at the lost toast. "Really? Wha-"

"Yes, yes, if you didn't creep around so much I'd have had a better idea of when you were awake, but there it is."

"I do not creep-"

"Will you please have a seat?" Sherlock said, directing John into the living room where John could see orange juice and a coffee pot already set out next to the newspapers.

John patted down his pyjamas, glad at least that he had bothered with a fresh t-shirt last night. Sherlock was still in his dressing gown anyway, so it really didn't matter. But all this domesticity... it was both pleasant and disconcerting.

Sherlock started to bring in trays and platefuls of things - scrambled eggs, toast, halved grapefruits, pancakes - "Sherlock, this is amazing, what made you think of all this?"

"I thought you'd be hungry," Sherlock said.

"Well, yeah, I am. Thank you."

Sherlock stood behind his own chair, looking a little too much like a waiter for a moment, before he said, "No, thank you, John, for being there for me last night." He leaned both hands on the back of the chair and his eyes showed nothing but sincerity as he gazed at John. "I wasn't feeling myself and you took hold of me - I don't just mean medically. I really appreciate it. And I realise the conversation we had was... surprising to you, I need to rethink how I go about approaching this."

"No," John said, feeling a little sick at the directness again, as well as Sherlock's concern. "No, it was perfect. What we said - I thought about it all night," he admitted.

"And did you come to any conclusions?"

"Whose bedroom do you want to share?" _Well, John, so much for waiting to bring it up again._

Sherlock was smiling though. "Mine, of course," he said.

"Of course," John agreed, and he looked over the food, wondering where to start as Sherlock sat opposite and picked up his drink. Was it bedtime yet?

***

Sherlock yawned dramatically from his place on the sofa, when the film they'd been watching came to an end. "It's cold," he said.

John watched with interest as Sherlock's lithe body stretched out beside him. "Hmm," he murmured. "Fire's gone out." They were slouched comfortably together, feet touching ever-so-slightly on the coffee table in front of them. "Should get some more blankets in here," he thought aloud.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nudging John's foot with his own. "Or, you know, it is sensible in this cold weather to conserve body heat by sharing a small space."

John looked over at him, arms folded across his chest, too relaxed but beginning to think he shouldn't be. "Is that right?" he said softly, smiling. "Are you suggesting we should share a small space tonight?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quickly, eyes warm and pure as he met John's.

Then there was just one word - "Bed?" - and they both nodded and edged off the sofa, turning off lights before wandering towards the hall. Towards Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock stopped at the bathroom door and turned back to John. "I'll just be a moment," and John, suddenly flustered, remembered his clothes were all upstairs.

"Sure, yeah, I'll just get my things... upstairs."

Sherlock smiled and they went their separate ways again, John changing quickly in his room before padding back downstairs and seeing both the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom doorway open.

He ducked quickly into the bathroom, taking extra care with brushing his teeth, and then, heart hammering, made his way tentatively to Sherlock's open door. He peaked in.

Sherlock had his back to John, closing his wardrobe door. He was wearing pyjama trousers, and nothing else. John couldn't breathe as he took in the sleekly muscled expanse of his friend's back - what happened to being cold? And then Sherlock turned around.

John blinked, lips pursed, completely unable to move, feeling somehow overdressed in a t-shirt and pyjama trousers. He raised a hand stupidly in a small wave and smiled inanely.

Sherlock smiled back. He looked relaxed and John had no idea how he was managing it. John wasn't expecting anything to happen here, he was too highly strung right now, he'd never manage it even if it was something that was on the cards. But he was nervous as hell.

Sherlock took a few steps over to the bed and pulled back the covers, not taking his eyes from John as he did so.

John, trying desperately to think of something to say came up with, "Which is your side?"

"The middle."

"Ah."

"I'll take this side," Sherlock conceded, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Will you join me?" he added softly.

John swallowed. "Ah, yes, yes, love to, thanks." He grabbed a corner of the dark grey sheet and tugged it back enough for him to sit down, kicked off his slippers and shuffled into the bed. Sherlock lay down beside him and pulled the covers up to his chin, turning to face John.

John mirrored him and they lay there, smiling, blinking, breathing. After a moment Sherlock reached out of their cocoon, stretching to turn off the side lamp and John admired the flash of arm and shoulder before waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"I've found it difficult to sleep, recently," Sherlock said, quietly. "I could only imagine you upstairs, lying there alone. I've missed you."

"Missed me?" John repeated, keeping his voice low. "How could you miss what we've never had before?"

"I don't know, but I did. This... this feels right. To have you beside me."

John let a sigh escape. "Yes," he agreed.

"I've wanted to ask you for some time, if we could try this. It means a lot to me that you're so patient, John."

"You never have to worry about that. It's all in your hands. And I'm fine with that," John added, sincerely.

Sherlock freed a hand from under the sheet and reached out to run his fingers along John's arm, shoulder to elbow - leaving goosebumps, raising John's pulse - trailing along his forearm to where John's hand rested on the pillow. Sherlock's fingers closed around his and John jerked a little at the tickle on his palm, at the unexpected touch.

He smiled as Sherlock continued to caress his hand. "Your hand is warm," Sherlock whispered.

"I really want to kiss you," John murmured, before he could stop himself. "I just wanted you to know, but I don't want to rush you," he rambled on. "I'll wait for howev-"

 _Oh..._ Lips. Lips on his - just a gentle press but it was enough, plenty to make the blood rush to John's head, focus completely on the connection. They came apart a moment later, bodies not close enough to hold the kiss without one of them moving. John's small gasp made Sherlock's eyes go wide.

John shook his head, a tiny move desperate to tell Sherlock _It's ok, this is good, this is perfect_. Sherlock's lips parted a little and John eased closer, kissed him back before he could speak. He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and his own hand slid up and touched Sherlock's face, fingers sliding against his smooth cheek. He didn't insist; the kiss remained gentle, just a caress and Sherlock's eyes closed.

When he pulled back John licked his lips, studying Sherlock's face. He could see every quiver of Sherlock's eyelids as he kept them closed, eyelashes just a smudge of dark in the dim light. He wished they had the lights on so he could see more - he wanted to remember details. He wondered if Sherlock had considered this as often as John had - not possible, surely. How often had he written out a portion of his blog, describing some personal feature of this man, giving too much away, and deleted it to save himself? He felt he could write reams now, just about that brief and beautiful kiss.

"How was that?" he asked in a half whisper, as Sherlock opened his eyes.

"John, you underestimate yourself at every turn," Sherlock replied, a slight tremble to his voice that John loved.

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Because you must surely know that that was bliss," he added softly.

"Yes," John whispered, staring at those lips now, rounded, pink and luscious.

Sherlock shifted and began sliding his hand beneath John's neck. John lifted up a little to allow the very welcome move. Once his arm was underneath, Sherlock tugged gently and brought John closer. John's skin felt too hot as he rose onto an elbow, shuffled in and looked down at Sherlock longingly.

"I want to keep you close," Sherlock told him.

John's breath caught. "I want that too." He leaned in, kissing Sherlock again, nipping a little at his lower lip. Before he could think about getting carried away he moved so that his head was level with Sherlock's bare chest, rested his head down and tucked his own hand under Sherlock's arm, curling his fingers around the curve of his shoulder.

He could hear and feel Sherlock's heartbeat like this, strong and regular beneath his ear. He rested his other palm against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock held him firmly around his waist. He knew he was drifting off and he didn't want to, he wanted to stay awake to appreciate what they were doing, finally, together in each other's arms.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some of Lestrade's speech directly from TSOT in this chapter, because I couldn't resist. Not trying to pretend his words are my own of course!!

There was a definite lack of urgency the next morning to get up and start the day. John awoke still in Sherlock's arms and although his first instinct was to ask if it was still ok to be there, he didn't. Sherlock was an adult. He had considered this for so long that he must know what he was doing. So John relaxed, breathed in the sleepy scent of Sherlock's skin, and waited for him to wake up.

When he did stir, Sherlock squeezed John in his arms, pressed a kiss to the top of his head and murmured the most wonderful "Good morning," that John had ever heard.

It didn't seem unusual that they were here together; it just seemed right, and it was certainly something that John wanted to have every morning from here onwards.

He held Sherlock close and rubbed his feet against Sherlock's calves. "'Morning," he answered softly.

"I didn't dream," Sherlock said, and John looked up to see his friend's face.

"Is that a good thing?" John asked slowly.

"Yes. I feel as if I spent the entire night with you."

John frowned, lifted up on an elbow and studied him more closely. "You did," he said. "I didn't move."

"I know, John, and I was here with you, aware even during sleep, rather than drifting somewhere else."

John just smiled. "I like that."

"You do?" John nodded - having Sherlock focus on him, even during sleep? Yes, that was good.

"Did you sleep well?" Sherlock asked.

John considered for a moment. "I haven't slept like that before. I've never wanted to be wrapped up in someone. It was good," John told him. _God_ , he really wanted to kiss this man.

"Good?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Good enough to do it again?"

"Anytime you want to," John assured him. He couldn't take his eyes from Sherlock's lips. He cleared his throat, eased himself off Sherlock's body and slumped down beside him, attempting to distract himself, but by the look on Sherlock's face now he had achieved nothing more than upsetting his friend with the lack of contact.

"Sorry, I- I didn't want to pressurise you. With... y'know..." He reached apologetically under the sheet, palming himself for a moment and hoping that explanation was enough. The warmth in his cheeks was annoying.

"Ah," Sherlock said, nodding his understanding. "That's ok, you don't need to hide anything from me, John."

John resisted the urge to grab Sherlock's hand and shove it into his pants. Completely inappropriate. He would never do that to his friend.

But Sherlock had other ideas anyway and John was completely happy with those ideas when Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him back in for a kiss that John had certainly not expected.

His lips parted at the feel of Sherlock's tongue against them, and the tentative, soft, wet press against his own made John think about that hand in his pants again.

He groaned into Sherlock's mouth, needing and wanting and holding his entire body back from pushing beyond Sherlock's limits. Sherlock held him fast and John took whatever he gave with pleasure. When they parted Sherlock was breathing hard and John had never seen him look so rumpled and downright sexy in all his dreams.

He gazed down stupidly at his friend, stomach flipping and heart racing, and pressed a final kiss to the swollen pink lips so temptingly close.

"Beautiful," John said, and Sherlock may only have flushed cheeks because of the early hour and the closeness of their two bodies in the warm bed, or it might be because John made him feel the same way Sherlock did to him.

***

The door clanged behind them as Sherlock stumbled to the bench at the back of the plain tiled room.

"Oh, nice, a single?" John turned to look through the tiny barred window behind him and caught sight of the officer shaking his head at them both.

"All we have left boys - it's Friday night."

John grumbled and groaned and leaned against the wall beside the bed to help him slide more easily to the floor.

"Sherlock," he said, slightly slurred. What was in those cocktails? And why the hell had they ended up drinking cocktails anyway? "I am going to kill you."

Sherlock looked over from where he was obviously attempting to get comfortable on the thin mattress. "How is this my fault?" he asked.

"You don't argue with a police officer. How do you not know that?"

"I didn't argue, I was merely pointing out the flaws in his logic," Sherlock told him, finishing on a hiccup.

John sighed and let his head loll back against the wall. He didn't have a problem sleeping anywhere, but he would definitely have preferred his bed right now. Or even better, Sherlock's. He took another look towards his friend and Sherlock was already asleep, curled on his right side, facing John with his eyes closed and hands tucked up under his chin.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," John murmured, completely taken in by the adorable nature of his man-child of a friend. "We need to stop doing this."

He felt his eyelids drooping and rested his head on his drawn up knees.

_"John, wake up."_

"Mmmmf."

_"You're shivering, come up here."_

John opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light and a blanket landed on his head.

He shook himself, frowning over at Sherlock. "What the hell?" he croaked.

"You're shivering," Sherlock told him, patting the bench beside him. He appeared to have squeezed right back against the wall. It would be tight but John could probably fit on there beside him.

"I'm fine," he said, and pulled the blanket over himself, closing his eyes again.

 

 

"Wakey wakey!" _Oh God, too loud, too cheerful._

John cracked his eyes open as the cell door slammed into the wall, shielded his eyes from the brightest lights he'd ever known and looked up to see Lestrade's hulking form in the doorway. "Greg, is that Greg?" John asked.

"Get up, I'm gonna put you two in a taxi," Greg continued, completely unabashed by the state of John and Sherlock. "I managed to square things with the desk sergeant. What a couple of lightweights - you couldn't even make it to closing time!"

"Could you, whisper?" John asked carefully, scrunching up his entire face as he stood and came up beside Greg to the door.

"Not really!" Greg boomed, and Sherlock was suddenly sitting upright and blinking in the confused manner of someone who has no idea where they are.

John resisted the urge to help Sherlock up, mainly because he really needed to take a piss. He followed Greg instead and when he emerged from the toilet, still in his socks, Sherlock was leaning on the front desk, glaring at anything that moved.

Greg stood behind the desk, huge grin on his face, handing over various items in plastic bags, clearly enjoying himself far too much as he returned their possessions.

He plonked John's shoes in front of him with his watch and wallet beside them. "Thanks," John murmured. "And, ah... sorry?" he added.

Greg pursed his lips together. "Hmm," he said. "I won't bother repeating to you what I've already told Sherlock here. But you two aren't teenagers, John, you should maybe remind each other of that now and again."

John just nodded. He wanted a shower and some decent sleep. He looked over at Sherlock who was shrugging into his coat and apparently refusing to make eye contact with him now. He clearly wasn't up to any sort of discussion either.

"Well, thanks for that, Sherlock," he said as they walked, still a little unsteadily, through the front entrance of the police station. "It was... it was something."

Finally, Sherlock looked back at him. "It didn't go exactly to plan, did it?" he admitted, opening the door to the taxi and holding it for John. "I apologise. It was my suggestion to go into that... fruit bar. I should have agreed when you wanted to flag that taxi down."

" _I_ wanted to?" John thought back, surprised that through a fog of alcohol he had been clear enough to think about stopping for the night.

"Yes, you were tired. But when you saw that there was pizza you didn't even argue."

"Oh, yeah, I do remember pizza. Since when did a bloody Hawaiian pizza bar spring up?"

He sat down heavily and Sherlock got in beside him, pulling the door closed with a too-loud 'clunk'. "Baker Street, please," Sherlock told the driver, shrugging down into his seat and resting his head back, closing his eyes.

John really wanted to lean his head against Sherlock's shoulder and close his eyes as well. He kept his eyes on the streets outside and eased back on his own seat, trying to get comfy for the short journey whilst ignoring the swirling warnings of nausea in his stomach.

It wasn't awkward exactly, it was silent, but John left Sherlock to snooze, or retreat to his mind palace or whatever he was doing. He didn't want to talk about his drinking, although Lestrade's words were hanging heavy.

John nudged Sherlock when they pulled up to the door of 221B, leaned forward and paid the driver, before climbing out and feeling like a chauffeur as he rounded the back of the cab and opened the door for a still lethargic Sherlock.

"Come on," he said taking his friend's arm. "Bed, you'll feel better."

Sherlock looked up at him, struggled to his feet and stood wavering on the pavement as John hunted for his keys. He dropped them, picked them up and grabbed Sherlock's arm again. "Let's get inside."

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked as they climbed the stairs, together, slowly.

"Oh, there you both are," came a voice from below. "You've had clients calling for you, Sherlock. Where have you been?"

John turned back, ushering Sherlock onwards, but he stopped as well. "Ah, Mrs Hudson, sorry, yeah, bit of a late one, we're both feeling a bit-" he stifled a fake yawn and gestured over his shoulder. "Better get upstairs."

"I'll make some breakfast for you, shall I bring it up or do you want it down here?"

"Oh, ah... maybe upstairs? Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

She nodded, a little flustered, a lot concerned, and went back to her door as John sighed and gave Sherlock a little shove to get them moving again. "I'm not really hungry, John." Sherlock told him.

"Just let her look after us a little," John replied. The thought of food right now was not pleasant to him either.

They made it into Sherlock's room and John left him on the bed while he went to take a much needed shower.

When he put his head around the door, Sherlock was snoring. John considered climbing into bed beside him, but they had currently only spent one night actually getting into bed together... he wasn't sure how Sherlock would feel if he woke up with John there.

So he pulled the door closed, grabbed the blanket from his chair and lay down on the sofa. He felt even worse now than he did waking in a police cell. More sleep would definitely help.

 

He woke again with a large, warm body pressed against him when he tried to roll over. He rubbed his eyes and found Sherlock snuggled up beside him, barely staying in place on the narrow sofa.

"Sherlock," he whispered, warmth spreading through his chest at the thought of Sherlock doing this. He reached out cautiously and stroked a pale cheek. "Sherlock." Sleepy eyes opened to gaze up into his. "Hi, how are you feeling?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock told him. "You weren't in bed, I came looking for you."

"Sorry, I wasn't sure where to go," John admitted.

"I thought you knew you were welcome in my bed every night, John?"

Suddenly there was a cough from the region of the table.

"Oh God," John whispered, as they both looked across the room. "Mrs Hudson," he added.

"Well, good morning again to you two," their landlady said, as she stood with one hand on a hip the other somewhere near her forehead, eyes wide and mischievous. "I was bringing your breakfast up and, well, I only _just_ realised you were there when you started to speak John, and then I looked over and saw the two of you, and... Oh, this is such a beautiful sight! I am thrilled for you both, I really am-"

John shoved Sherlock a little and he rolled onto the floor, John following with an ungainly flop onto his knees off the sofa, before they both scrambled to their feet.

Sherlock started talking first, probably attempting to cut Mrs Hudson off before she could really get going. She was the happiest John thought he had ever seen her as she continued to chatter about how pleased she was for them, Sherlock and John both agreeing and insisting at every possible moment that they hadn't been hiding anything from her, this was all still new and they didn't mean to let her find them together on the sofa of all places.

"At least we had all our clothes on," Sherlock noted.

"Nice, Sherlock, yes," John said, slumping back onto the sofa in relieved defeat.

*** 

When they were alone again, when Sherlock had made tea and John felt a little calmer, he knew they had to talk about it. But he still didn't want to.

"John, I want to say something, and I feel that I'm the best person to say this, because we spend so much time together. I'm not being fair to you by allowing you to drink so much."

"What? Sherlock, you're not _allowing_ me to do anything," John started.

Sherlock carried on despite his outburst. "You are drinking more, since we began to... have a physical relationship," he said slowly.

"I am not," John said, but confusion flooded him. Had he been drinking a bit more these past few days? His bank balance was certainly feeling it, he had noticed that.

Sherlock was studying him, concern across his face. He started pacing.

John frowned harder.

"Do you think you might be using alcohol as a coping mechanism?"

"Well, I didn't, not until this moment," John huffed.

"I think I'm to blame," Sherlock went on. "I think you've been struggling this whole time and I've been selfish - I drew it out by over thinking and you've withdrawn a part of yourself. I've made you even more dependent on alcohol because of what we've started here."

"Oh, no, not at all, Sherlock. This is not your problem - I like a drink, I always have. I can't end up like last night again - I'm a bloody doctor," he shook his head, furious with himself. "But I don't blame _you_. I started all this. Maybe I needed a bit of help," he conceded, "while you worked through your stuff." While John's own feelings deepened and he tried to work out what he would do if Sherlock didn't come into his arms... "But it's ok, we're ok.

Sherlock didn't look entirely convinced. "So, we'll stick to a drink at home? I think that's best, don't you?"

"In your case certainly," John said with a wink. "I haven't forgotten it was you that got us arrested last night. Lightweight is right," he added thinking back to Greg's reprimand. "You do have a really low tolerance."

Sherlock gave him a disparaging look. "But perhaps yours is a little too high?" he asked softly.

John sighed heavily. "Agreed."

"Please don't sleep on the sofa again, John."

John smiled at him, helpless in the face of Sherlock's regard for him. "I promise."


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's here - they have made it to touching territory. Gasp.

John tried hard over the next few days to reach for tea and not alcohol. To not over-think what he wanted to ask Sherlock, because taking it slow was actually the best thing they could do, he knew that. Kissing Sherlock was more than he had ever imagined possible and he would smile just thinking about the next time he'd be able to touch him. The rest... well, there was no rush.

He was cleaning his teeth one evening and looked up to the sound of gentle breathing, and Sherlock was right there behind him, watching him in the mirror. John's stomach began tumbling just from the proximity. He couldn't make it to bed these days without some sort of nervous fluttering. Without a quick drink before bed he was definitely more jumpy about the prospect of anything more physical happening.

"It takes you a long time to get ready for bed," Sherlock said.  

John spat out some toothpaste to cover his surprise. Sherlock was leaning against the door and he moved to sit on the edge of the bath.

"I like to be clean," John said, trying to avoid spitting toothpaste at the mirror as he looked up at Sherlock's reflection. "How long does it take you?" Sherlock always looked pristine. He must have a stock of products he kept in his bedroom, because there wasn't much of his in the bathroom cabinet.

"It's intriguing, these personal activities. I've not really watched you before now."

"I'm kind of glad about that actually," John said, before rinsing his mouth. "Ok, I'm ready."

Sherlock stood up, led the way to his bedroom and in a moment they were lying together in the comfort of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock reached out an arm and John rolled to his side, wrapping an arm over Sherlock's chest, his forehead touching Sherlock's cheek.

He didn't need a drink to do this - with a bit of practice they could enjoy this without any level of panic. He was just so determined not to mess it up. He needed to relax, stop berating himself, stop worrying about the future - just enjoy each moment.

"John, you need to relax," Sherlock told him suddenly.

"I am bloody relaxed," he blurted, tensing up instantly and feeling the irritation flow through him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I was relaxed," John continued more calmly, "until you told me to relax."

"Would you like to talk about anything?"

"Would you?" John asked.

"I think we should talk about any limitations there might be between us."

John kept his arm tightly curled around Sherlock's body - he wasn't backing away from this. If Sherlock could do it then so could he. "You want to talk about sex?" he said slowly.

"I think the more we understand each other the better, don't you?"

John nodded, forehead brushing against Sherlock's curls. God, he did need a drink for this conversation. No. _No_ he could do this. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing so that his thoughts stayed calm as well. He felt Sherlock's hand against his cheek, resting lightly. "Do you want blatant honesty, or should I break it more gently?" John asked softly.

Sherlock frowned before saying, "Your honesty is what grounds you, John."

John scrunched his face up, willing this to be ok, and pushed straight on with, "I want to fuck you."

Sherlock made a perfect 'O' with his mouth. "Oh, I see," he said.

"Is that something you've thought about?" John asked carefully.

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, and John was left hanging.

He waited a moment, fairly scandalised by his own admission, concerned by Sherlock's reaction, needing a cold shower with how hot he now was.

"I have thought about you in many different scenarios, but as I told you, I really don't know how those daydreams might pan out in real life. Your patience will be very much a necessity, John."

John was quick to reply. "Of course, absolutely, and I'm not saying we should start with that, we'll build up to it..."

But Sherlock was suddenly rambling, "I don't know if I can - I don't know, John... What if I can't and there's nothing between us? I don't want you to be frustrated... what if-"

"Hey, hey," John said, taking his face into a gentle grasp. "Now who needs to relax? I've got you," he assured his friend. "We're doing this together - I haven't ever been with a man, Sherlock, and there are some significant differences here. But I'm not going anywhere - if all we have is kissing, that's fine. That's more than fine. I'm here for _you_ , Sherlock. It will only ever be you." 

He wanted to say more, give more reassurance but his voice was wavering, and what they didn't need was for John to have some sort of breakdown at this point. So he held himself together, held tight to Sherlock, feeling his body calm beside him. He murmured more whispered words when they came to him, hating that Sherlock was panicking about this. They were close to something and John wanted whatever they had here to be perfect, definitely not uncomfortable.

Sherlock slipped his arms around John's waist and pulled him closer. After another moment he grunted a little and tugged at John. "Closer," he said, slightly demanding but that was all good as far as John was concerned. Whatever Sherlock needed he could have it.

John shifted a little, trying to wedge himself closer to Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed to lose patience and grabbed him, pulling him on top until John was straddling him, thighs pressed to each of his. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, as John wrapped him up and tried to avoid thinking about how damned turned on he was at being manhandled.

He pulled back a little, taking Sherlock's face in his hands again. "You ok?" he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded. "I want to try. You know I trust you, John."

John couldn't resist. He wasn't trying to start anything they weren't ready for, but kissing Sherlock Holmes had become his favourite thing. He grazed his lips from the corner of Sherlock's mouth to his smooth cheek, before lightly kissing his lips again.

Sherlock sighed a little and seemed to relax further under John's weight, still holding him close. He joined the kiss, searching out John's lips and John struggled to stay still on top of him. He would need to move, any minute now or this would become awkward. He just couldn't stop kissing those lips.

And then Sherlock surprised him again by taking his hand, running it down between their bodies and pressing it to his crotch. To the obvious erection in his pants.

John withdrew from the kiss with an unintended slurping sound. He leaned up on his elbow, chewing on his bottom lip, staring at Sherlock as he held John's other hand in place. "Oh, nice," he said, grinning.

Sherlock smiled back. "No one has ever given me an erection before," Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

"I didn't touch you, I promise," John said, holding up his free hand.

Sherlock grabbed his hips and pulled their groins together. John swore under his breath as his hard, straining cock pressed into Sherlock's.

"You're touching me now."

"Oh yeah, so I am," John said, grasping Sherlock's shoulder for support. "Sherlock, you're going to kill me."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm sorry John, shall I let you go?"

"No, never," John replied instantly.

"It appears that our bodies know what to do. If I can just turn this off," he tapped his temple, "then we'll be fine."

"More than fine," John told him, kissing him again.

 

There was gentle caressing of lips, a gradual teasing slide of tongues. John had never kissed anyone the way he kissed this man - slow, almost tentative brushes of lips, wanting desperately to know what would turn Sherlock on. The look in his eyes seemed to John to be adoration. He wanted to rush, to see what other looks might cross Sherlock's face - but they had to go slow.

It was all new to them both, despite John's experience he had nothing to compare this to, and he was glad of it. He wanted to explore everything but he would be guided by Sherlock, always - if Sherlock wanted the kiss to deepen, John would do it. If he slowed it down, John went slow. Hands wandered and he took note of each sigh, each inhale, every jerk and twitch of muscle - trying to tune himself fully into what Sherlock was feeling.

He had suggested they move into the shower, thinking it might be easier with so much slipperiness. Not that they intended anything serious yet, they would just see what might happen.

They were naked. Naked under the warm spray of the water and John had no way of concealing his arousal. But he didn't want to, he wanted Sherlock to know, to see how turned on he was, just from kissing him.

"John," Sherlock murmured, and he clutched a little tighter, as John moved his lips to Sherlock's cheek, placing kisses wherever he could on the beautiful pale length of Sherlock's neck. He ran his hand through dampened curls, darkened by the water, and Sherlock put his head back under the spray, eyes closed, exposing more skin to John's gaze, to his lips. He hummed as he pressed his lips to the freckle beside Sherlock's Adam's apple, felt Sherlock shiver and held him closer.

"I've got you," John said, running a hand slowly down Sherlock's back, marvelling at how smooth and soft his skin was, that he was able to touch now, to revel in the feel of their bodies pressed together. When he had let himself dream of these things, it had never felt like this - he couldn't have imagined how good it would be.

Sherlock grasped at John's hips and as John drew back a little way to look at his face, Sherlock met his eyes. "Yes, John, yes."

They kissed again, John nudging his hips forward, desperate for more friction, unsure if this was ok, but Sherlock was hardening again too, John ran his hand down the length of Sherlock's body, taking hold of his own cock at the last moment, knuckles brushing against Sherlock's.

His breath caught as he stroked himself, and Sherlock looked down, his expression somewhere between shocked and turned on.

"Can I..." John's voice cracked, and he swallowed. "Can I touch you?" he whispered, barely audible above the rushing water.

Sherlock looked into his eyes, fingers digging into John's hips, not allowing him to move away. "Yes," he said again, nodding intently. "Please, John."

John pressed him gently back against the tiled wall, careful that their feet stayed on the non-slip surface of the bath, and kissed him again, moving his hips in, pressing their groins together and grasping Sherlock's erection along with his own. He didn't falter, but he did wonder how he was still functioning when he was touching Sherlock's actual cock.

He rubbed himself along the underside of Sherlock's solid shaft, groin tightening every time their heads brushed together. Sherlock exhaled slowly, watching. He grabbed John's arse as his hips moved gently in time with John's careful thrusts against him.

John thought he might get off like this, just this - their bodies so closely connected, Sherlock's face losing all appearance of rational, logical thought.

Sherlock's hands went into John's hair and he kissed him, tongue sliding against the roof of John's mouth, sucking on his lip as John felt his orgasm building.

Sherlock groaned into his mouth as John's hand sped up, his hips giving stuttering thrusts into John's fist.

"You ok?" John gasped out, only just capable of rational thought himself, but he forced himself to be aware.

"Yes - more," Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah, that's it," John gasped out, giving it his all now, desperate for them both, on the edge of something wild, needing this release so much he didn't know if he would come down from it. And if Sherlock came as well...

He grabbed Sherlock's arse with one hand, both of their cocks held in his other, and gritted his teeth as he pumped his hand. "Come on, come on," he whispered. "You feel so good, so fucking good in my arms Sherlock, can you feel it? I want to come with you, please," he gasped out.

Sherlock cried out as John squeezed the heads of their cocks together, and as soon as he saw the first spurt of cum from Sherlock's swollen head, there was nothing to hold back his own climax. He came with a roar, desperate to see Sherlock's face through it all, blinking through the spray of the water, gasping for each breath as he pulled on their cocks, swearing when he could manage it, shaking and crumbling as it subsided.

He fell into Sherlock's arms, stomachs slippery with cum, heaving breaths in as if there wasn't enough air.  

"Fuck, fuck, Sherlock-"

"I've got you, John," was the whispered response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot of gasping from John, but well, he's touching Sherlock, he can barely breathe!! :D


	14. Fourteen

John hardly dared move in case he broke the invisible bubble of perfection that was the two of them standing under the shower, covered in spunk.

But then Sherlock started to laugh. John drew back and stared at him wide-eyed.

"John, I'm sorry, I think I'm hysterical," Sherlock said through his giggles.

"Uh... ok, do you need me to help with that?" John asked, smirking. "Because I just wanked you off, and I wasn't really expecting laughter." But Sherlock's giggles were making John start to laugh as well.

"I thought this was something out of reach..." Sherlock said, when he could take a breath. "Being naked, having an orgasm with someone else," he added. "It was beautiful John."

"Ah, so, not funny then...?"

"No," Sherlock pulled John back to him, into a slippery embrace. "Perfect, John, thank you."

John sighed, slipping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "You've no idea how happy I am to hear you say that."

"Should we use some soap?" Sherlock asked after another moment.

John nodded into his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm getting a bit cold, if I'm honest," he said, reluctantly.

Sherlock reached behind him and started to rub John down with showergel, John stood a little shell-shocked still, and allowed Sherlock to wash him. He paid special attention to John's stomach, adding a little more gel to his hands and then giving John a serious look. "Is there anywhere you want to wash yourself?" he asked.

John watched him closely. "Only if you want me to," he said, a little questioning tone in his voice.

Sherlock answered by sweeping his hand down John's torso and over his now flaccid cock. John flinched and Sherlock's hand stopped moving, raising both eyebrows as he waited.

"No, it's good, Sherlock, sorry, that was involuntary I promise you."

Sherlock passed the bottle to John and resumed his gentle cleaning. John tried to will himself not to react because he didn't want to seem insatiable, desperate, or anything else for that matter. He took a deep breath and squirted some soap into his palm. With his other hand he touched Sherlock's shoulder, wanting confirmation that it was ok to touch him back.

A quick nod was enough and John smoothed his hand across Sherlock's chest with no further hesitation. He had never truly considered what it would be like, this touching thing. This actual running of slippery palms across each other's skin, Sherlock may look lean with his clothes on but his chest was firm and well-defined, and as John slid both hands over his shoulders and down his arms he couldn't stop his cock filling again.

He cleared his throat as it bumped against Sherlock's hand and Sherlock looked up at him with a grin. "Sorry," John said unapologetically.

"I can't complain, John," Sherlock murmured. "And you don't ever need to apologise to me."

John smiled, continuing his massage of Sherlock's body and when they were both finished they tried to get under the spray at the same time and ended up in a close embrace in order to fit.

They stepped out together and bumped hands reaching for a towel. John loved it that they were doing these completely mundane things and that they were doing them together. He dried himself more slowly than he would normally, glancing to Sherlock now and again as he did the same. John had a permanent smile on his face, he knew he did.

"John," Sherlock said when John turned his back for a moment.

"Yeah?" John said looking over his shoulder, wondering whether he should hang up his towel in here or take it upstairs to get dressed first. How much parading around naked was appropriate at this point?

"This won't change anything, will it?" Sherlock asked and John shifted to look at him properly.

"Oh, God, no, Sherlock not at all, not from my point of view, no," John insisted.

Sherlock nodded, holding his towel in front of him in much the same way as John was, covering what they had both revealed already. There was really nothing much to leave to the imagination and so surely they didn't need to be this modest.

"We're good?" John asked, when Sherlock didn't respond.

He nodded again. "Yes, yes of course. Tea?" he added.

"Hmm, I was thinking of something a little stronger, but I know I shouldn't," John admitted.

"You don't have to abstain for me John," Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "No, no, I promised myself I would do this... us. This stuff, I would do it sober. I need you to know I'm serious. Completely serious about you. About us."

He took a deep breath, not sure his words had made much sense, glad to have said them anyway.

Sherlock just smiled. Content, it would seem, with John's stilted explanation. He reached out with his towel and draped it over the rail, turned to John, fully naked and damp from the shower, a few droplets on his clavicle that John wanted to lick. He took a step and put a hand on John's shoulder, edging closer until he kissed John's cheek. So chaste and yet so much more sensual than John had experienced before.

He only realised his eyes were closed when Sherlock kissed his lips and startled them back open.

"John, I don't think I can stop."

"Stop what?"

"Being this close to you," he whispered. "Kissing you."

"Fine with me," John assured him softly. "Stay as close as you need." He shivered as Sherlock ran a hand down his arm and took the towel from him. "Oh, yeah, that's... ah..." he trailed off as Sherlock hung it beside his own before reaching for John's hand. "Ok," he said needlessly. That answered his naked concerns anyway. Sherlock led them both from the bathroom and into his room, any thought of tea apparently forgotten. "I don't actually have any clothes down here," John said.

"Do you need any?" Sherlock asked seriously.

John looked them both up and down and smiled. "Nope," he admitted. They had always been clothed to some extent so far in bed together. There really didn't seem any point now.

Sherlock rounded the bed and pulled back the covers, watching John as he stood there. Finally he moved, well-aware of his lack of clothes when the air reached his damp parts as he closed the door.

Sherlock was already lying down but his chest was fully exposed beneath the cream sheet and he was looking relaxed and interested while John climbed in beside him.

He reached out an arm and John slid into the offered hug gratefully. This bedtime cuddling was what put him most at ease. If they could do this, be this close and relaxed beside each other, then the rest should be easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been completely obsessed over a new fandom these last couple of weeks, and then my laptop died. I've also been reading an interesting mixture of things. Then yesterday I was watching the beautiful Peter Pan from 2003 and I fell in love with yet more characters, and suddenly there was inspiration to write! So here it is :)


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back!!
> 
> There's a pov switch, some Mycroft, some 'Graham', not forgetting some unforgettable jeans ;) Hope you enjoy!

"John."

John frowned at the sharp tone, always immediately put on edge by Sherlock's brother. "What can I do for you, Mycroft?" he said, as he tucked the phone under his chin and carried on with making his lunch. He should have made his sandwiches last night but he was... distracted.

The voice in his ear continued. "How would you describe my brother, John? Would you say he was the sort of person for whom affection came naturally? Or would you say that he could be in severe danger of emotional difficulties if say, oh I don't know, perhaps someone was toying with his heart? You do remember The Woman, don't you?"

John was speechless for a moment, "How-" he let out and immediately regretted it.

"You didn't think this could be your little secret, did you?"

"Mycroft, whatever you think you know, Sherlock is a big boy now, he can look after himself. And for your information," he added, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper, "I am not going to break his heart. Don't ever compare me to that woman."

"John, John, please. I think you'll agree that a man knows his own brother better than most. More so, certainly, than someone who has never taken a personal interest in his own sibling. Why should I believe you have the best of intentions for mine?"

"What is it you're afraid of here? Letting your brother get hurt or letting him actually live a little?"

The line was quiet for a moment and John wondered if he might just hang up in disgust. He looked down at his suddenly unappetising lunch preparations and shook his head.

"I'll be in touch," Mycroft finally said.

"I look forward to it," John answered, and he threw down his phone onto the table behind him.

"John, what's happened?" Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching John curiously.

"Mycroft, he's been hearing rumours apparently. Wanted to warn me off in case I hurt you."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised and John wondered if actually he should have kept that part to himself...

"What did you tell him?"

"I wanted to tell him to fuck off," John smiled. "I told him you can look after yourself."

Sherlock returned his smile with a thoughtful one of his own.

"What I should have told him was that I have no intentions of hurting you. You know that, don't you?" John asked sincerely. He hadn't expected that they'd be discussing feelings this early in the day, this early in their relationship come to that.

"I do John, I have no concerns about your intentions."

John let his face fall as he said, "What are your concerns?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and pulled his robe a little tighter around his shoulders. When he spoke, John had to lean in to hear him better. "That I won't be what you want, not in the end."

John moved, strode quickly across the room and took Sherlock by the shoulders. "We've been through this, haven't we?" he said softly. "You are, and have always been, exactly what I want. Why will no one trust that?" he thought aloud.

"I trust you," Sherlock told him, eyes so soft and endlessly open to interpretation, but this time John needed to see that his words had sunk in.

"You're my best friend, Sherlock, you're all that I need."

Sherlock blinked and his lips rose into a lop-sided grin. "The same to you, John, although I may struggle to show it sometimes."

John coughed a little and smirked.

"Most of the time. I will try harder."

John nodded and let his hands fall, sliding them down Sherlock's arms to his hands. He held on while he stood up on his toes and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock's arms slipped around his waist and he pulled John close as the kiss continued.

It meant the world that they were able to do this. Kissing in the kitchen - no one had any right to come between this, to try to tell them that this wasn't perfect just as it was.

"John," Sherlock murmured against his lips. "You're overthinking."

John drew back slightly, frowning at his friend. "No, I'm not."

"Don't let Mycroft, or anyone else, bother you."

John rocked back onto his heels, taking a deep breath. "I won't," he lied. "Better get these made," he added, turning back to his sandwiches. "Did you want one?"

"No, thank you, I'll eat later, I have to get to Scotland Yard, apparently Lestrade has forgiven me and needs my help with something or other."

"Something or other, well that sounds important. What about me?" John asked, spreading peanut butter on his bread because he was running late now and there was no time for grating cheese.

"He didn't ask for you, I think he realises you were mostly to blame for our little... incident."

"Me?" John said, indignant as he turned to see Sherlock's retreating back swanning out of the room. "Charming, Sherlock," he mumbled. "I thought we just talked about treating your friends more pleasantly?" he called.

"Did we?" Sherlock's voice replied.

"I have a late surgery, won't be back before eight," John called out again, but there was no response this time. He pulled a yellow sticky off the pad by the fridge and wrote out a quick note:

_Back by 8pm._  
_Dinner later? My treat._  
_John_

He very briefly considered leaving a kiss after his name, but he quickly decided that was inappropriate for both him and Sherlock. He stuck the note to Sherlock's bedroom door and called goodbye through the bathroom door on his way out.

***

Work was slow despite the never ending stream of patients. John really didn't know where they all came from. Mothers these days were so terrified by the media that any minor ailment had become an instant emergency GP appointment. John didn't blame them, and he worked hard to make sure they knew they had support and that a cut on a little finger was not going to kill their child.

He never knew how people did it though, became a parent. How did they even go about making that decision? Even when he was in his dating women phase (which is how he now chose to think of his life, prior to accepting that he loved his best friend and no other) he had never for a moment been able to truly consider having a child with any of them. Which was another reason for so many break-ups, he supposed.

He needed someone in his life, and he was so grateful that that person was Sherlock.

He got butterflies every time he thought about the changes they'd made. He found himself smiling, warming, more than he should while anywhere but his bedroom, during his lunch break. Just thinking about Sherlock, kissing him, lying beside him in bed, being together in the same room and wanting to kiss him all the time - more than that though, knowing that Sherlock wanted him too... it was almost too much to comprehend.

***

"What do you mean, you have a date?" Lestrade had the tone and expression of complete disbelief, and Sherlock just smiled.

"A date - you know, where two people go somewhere together and enjoy each other's company."

"What?" Lestrade just stood there, blocking the door while Sherlock shrugged into his coat, shaking his head and frowning as if Sherlock was speaking another language. Which, in fact, he was, by all accounts. His new language included words like: John, kissing, touching, sex.

He didn't think he'd be using those particular words in front of Graham, but still, he _thought_ those words more and more these days. His mind palace included areas entirely devoted to John. Those were his favourite spaces to be now. Apart from being beside John.

He blinked. Lestrade was still gaping at him. "Right, yes, I have to go."

Lestrade drew back, eyebrows raised. "That's it? No further explanation? Come on Sherlock, you've never had a date in all the years we've known each other. Does John know?" he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

Sherlock considered his next words carefully. Now wasn't the time to let slip the reality of the situation to everyone in their acquaintance. He would need to discuss further with John. Especially after this morning's phone call from Mycroft. Sherlock had yet to be able to yell at his brother about that, he had the strong suspicion that Mycroft was blocking his calls. He had sent a lengthy text on the subject though.

_Do not attempt to intimidate John._  
_We both know where that would lead._  
_If you have questions, you know where to come._

"Yes, he knows," Sherlock said finally.

Graham seemed to snap out of it at the same time as Sherlock. "Ok, well, will you let me know how it goes? I'm happy for you Sherlock," he said, and his hand slapped against Sherlock's arm in a most unusual manner.

He frowned. "Thank you," he said slowly. "Would you mind?" he added, motioning to the door and Lestrade sidestepped with an apology, allowing Sherlock to leave.

  


John hadn't specified where they would be going for dinner so Sherlock had to return to the flat. He arrived a little after 6pm and decided that he should probably shower before finding something to wear. As soon as he stepped into the bath the vision of John was there with him, pressing him into the wall, giving him pleasure unlike anything he had experienced. John's hands on him were libidinous, pure ecstasy and Sherlock needed more.

He had taken so long to come to terms with the fact that he wanted to be with John for more than work, for more than the occasional game of Monopoly, even for more than the talking that happened sometimes late at night in their arm chairs across from each other.

John was everything to him.

He found that he couldn't quite place the time when that had happened. Somewhere between John confessing his own feelings that fateful night downstairs, and him beginning to open up to Sherlock, and discuss his past relationships. Sherlock wanted him anyway, despite any of his past. His past made John who he was today. But he had needed to know that John wouldn't treat Sherlock as just a date.

Sherlock wanted it all.

He finished showering, dried himself off and walked, naked, to his room. In the back of his wardrobe, on a high shelf, was a pair of dark blue jeans he had hardly worn because he was a creature of habit and had grown accustomed to his suits. He pulled them out now and threw them onto the bed, found some black pants from the drawer and tugged them on before finding his favourite purple shirt. They had both found clothes to be rather a distraction recently, but he felt that John might appreciate this small effort he was making for tonight. If John was planning a dinner date, it would be the first since they had begun to wank each other off at every opportunity and that made it a celebration of sorts, surely.

He sent a quick text to John once he had done up his buttons.

_I'm waiting.  
Will you be long?_

_SH_

He was impatient now for the evening to start, for the walking to the restaurant, the watching John over the table, the ridiculous warmth and nervous tingling he experienced whenever he was close to John - and whenever John looked at him with _those eyes_. He was impatient to see how much he could learn about John tonight and about what they might do once they were back home, naked and in his bed.

He was pacing. He needed a cigarette. He needed John.

"John?" he cried out when he heard the door downstairs. He was in the hall and at the top step when John appeared below him.

"Hi," John began, and then he stopped talking, got that strange look about him as he often did mid-sentence these days, and stood looking Sherlock up and down as if he was a glass of whisky after a long day at work. "Oh, God, Sherlock," he added, just when Sherlock had started to feel that something might be wrong.

"What?" he asked.

"You look-" He breathed out heavily and climbed to the top step as Sherlock took a step backwards. "Bloody incredible," John finished.

"Oh," Sherlock smiled, happy with John's response to his efforts. "Thank you, John. Are you hungry? I thought we should get this date started so that we can get back here as quickly as possible and you can do that thing to me that you were whispering about last night."

John took another step forwards and carefully placed his bag on the floor.

"Oh, really," John said, advancing on him which made Sherlock's stomach flip dramatically and his palms begin to tingle. He could feel his heart reaching unprecedented levels already and they were merely standing in the hallway, talking about sex. At least, that's what he thought John had been describing to him last night as he kissed his neck and wrapped his palm around Sherlock's cock. At that point, things had become a little blurry.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, so, let's get you dressed, and we can eat."

"Why have I never seen those before?" John said, looking at Sherlock's choice of trousers.

"You like them?" Sherlock asked pointlessly. That was another thing that he had found himself doing recently, adding unnecessary fluff to conversations. He blamed John entirely. Of course John liked them, Sherlock could quite easily see the affect that this pair of rather tight jeans was having on his friend. He toyed with the collar of his shirt for a moment, one hand on his hip while John looked on, nodding.

"Dinner?" he said, watching John carefully. Maybe they could have dinner afterwards, he thought as John took one more step and Sherlock felt the wall at his back.

"I don't think we'll make it," John said softly, "do you?"

Sherlock looked down into those eyes, serious, but with a sense of wonder in them, his tongue peaked out at the corner of his mouth and Sherlock knew - they had skipped over the part of the evening that might have been considered foreplay. And he was already growing hard when John's hands slid around his hips and squeezed. "John," he murmured, eyes closing as John began to undo buttons.

 


	16. Sixteen

John watched his hands as he unfastened the purple shirt, revealing skin beneath that he had to kiss. He pressed in against Sherlock's body, humming against his throat as he felt Sherlock shiver under his palms. He had been hungry, ready for dinner, to take Sherlock out and spend some time together. But seeing him there, looking fucking stupendous in those jeans of all things, in the purple shirt that had never failed to make John squirm whenever Sherlock had worn it - John wasn't hungry anymore.

Sherlock leaned back into the wall as John kissed him, he slipped his hands inside the shirt once he'd finished with the buttons, aware that Sherlock had dressed up for him and unable to compose himself long enough to ask if undressing him was actually annoying.

"Sherlock," he murmured eventually, "I want you." He took Sherlock's face in between his hands in a gentle grasp, waiting until Sherlock opened his eyes before he kissed his lips - pushy, demanding entry, probing and sucking. Their bodies pressed together, perfectly aligned from chest to groin, John could feel Sherlock's movement's against him, sinuous, strong and wanting.

But he needed to be sure. He pulled back, seeking confirmation first in Sherlock's eyes, and then waiting for the words before he would move again.

"Yes, John, show me what else there is, I'm ready," Sherlock said, voice husky, words running over each other.

John took Sherlock's hands in his, tugged him away from the wall and walked backwards until he hit the door with his heel. He shoved and pushed through it, bringing Sherlock with him, the shirt flowing around him where John had left it dishevelled. To even things up a bit he yanked at his own collar, pulling off his tie and grabbing the hem of his shirt with one hand, pulling it loose and starting on the buttons.

Sherlock smiled, nodded, and took the lead, pulling John along to his bedroom and kicking open the door. They fell in a heap on the bed, John rising onto his elbows and straddling Sherlock, looking down into his face and dragging his hands down his chest.

"I bought lube John, I thought we might need it."

"Oh, right," John said, taken by surprise, but only for a moment. He had been whispering to Sherlock last night, he remembered the words he had used, but he certainly hadn't meant to rush things on at all, hadn't wanted Sherlock to think he wasn't blissfully happy with their current situation of showers and bed-sharing.

And yet, here they were, talking about lube and Sherlock was wearing jeans and-

"We should take off more clothes," Sherlock suggested.

John nodded. "I'm glad you can still form thoughts, I think I lost my mind the second I saw you."

Sherlock had reached down and was pulling open the jeans - dark blue and so tight and so wonderful over his hip bones, _oh God_. "Wear these again? Please?" John said.

"Of course," Sherlock replied simply.

But for now they both set about struggling out of their clothes. John rolled off him, shoved his trousers off, kicking off his shoes at the last moment and helping Sherlock with his, before Sherlock pushed his jeans down and off. Shirts were thrown over the side of the bed and John lunged back on top of Sherlock's lithe body and kissed him again.

"Have you really thought about this?" he asked in a quick break between kisses.

Sherlock looked up at him with eyes that were both playful and sincere. "Yes. Have you?"

John sighed and swallowed. "I've tried not to, I didn't want you to feel any pressure."

"But you have thought about it."

"Oh God, yes."

"And you're ready?"

John nodded, he was ready. He wanted to do this, but... "We can't rush, ok? I won't hurt you."

"We have lube," Sherlock said again, and he tried to reach to his bedside table but couldn't quite manage it with John straddling him.

"I know, but still..."

Sherlock frowned. "John, it's ok, we don't need 'doctor mode'."

John just looked at him, nonplussed.

"You don't need to worry about me - physically."

John sat up. "Sherlock, look, you've not done this before. I've not done this before. I'm just... we need to take it slowly so that we're both prepared."

"You've not done this before?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Not this exact- not this thing that we're talking about, no."

"And it's remarkably different is it, to having intercourse with a woman?"

"Um..." John covered his eyes for a moment. "A little bit, yes." He took a breath. "But you have lube and I have patient fingers," he murmured. "We'll be ok."

"Right, well John, I am ready as I keep telling you, so shall we get on?"

To attempt to stop any further conversation or demands, John kissed him.

  
  


After much patience, much careful preparation and almost ejaculating twice already, John was on the brink. He had been on the brink for so long he thought he was on the way to mastering tantric sex. He thought maybe Sherlock would enjoy investigating that side of things actually. He would bring it up later. After... oh... _yes_... "Sherlock," he cried, gripping the back of Sherlock's thigh as he eased in a little further to Sherlock's tight, tight body.

He felt the sweat beading on his forehead and Sherlock was looking up at him, eyes glazed over as he breathed heavily and clutched to John's biceps.

He clearly couldn't form words now, which John took as a wonderful sign that this was going well.

He leaned down and kissed him, sucking on his lower lip, still trying to hold back and knowing that he couldn't much longer. Sherlock's erection was bobbing between them and John took hold of it, producing an immediate sigh from Sherlock who blinked and tightened his hold. "Mmmm..." he murmured and John enveloped him, running his palm up and over the head, trying to maintain the gentle rhythm he had created; needing to go faster and desperate not to.

Sherlock began whispering his name, over and over, raking his nails down John's back and holding his hips as John's gentle thrusts lost all coordination. He pulled oh-so-slowly out so that he didn't lose control. Sherlock blinked at him and frowned.

"John, what are you doing?" he asked, voice rough and accusing.

John hastily rolled off the condom and opened his palm, easing his own cock in alongside Sherlock's. "I can't, sorry - needed to -" and that was it.

Embarrassingly fast in the end, actually, but as always with Sherlock he felt it through his entire body. He used his cum to slick the way to Sherlock's orgasm, even as his own continued - holding Sherlock down by one shoulder as he worked his fist over Sherlock's erection, until Sherlock's head was thrown back again. He didn't seem too concerned that John hadn't managed to continue their experiment, when he came across John's knuckles with a loud cry of pleasure.

  
  


"Wow," John said, as he lay staring up at the ceiling.

"Indeed, John, I feel the same."

John looked over at Sherlock, head beside him on the pillow. He smiled. Sherlock's hair was ruffled, his skin was glowing with a sheen of perspiration and John reached out to take his hand.

"You liked it?" John asked quietly.

"Yes, very much." He rolled over and met John's eyes. "You have many skills, Doctor Watson."

John raised his eyebrows. "I could say the same."

"Did you enjoy it? Was it different from your previous experiences?"

John squeezed his hand. "Everything we do together is different from any previous experience."

Sherlock shuffled over and kissed him, wrapping around him and caressing John's cheek. "I think we may have missed dinner."

"Are you hungry?" John asked. He was starving.

Sherlock nodded.

"Why don't you make the tea and I'll order pizza?"

Sherlock nodded but didn't immediately move. "Next time you invite me out for dinner, John, I'll know what to expect."

John slid his arm beneath Sherlock's shoulders and shook his head at himself. "D'you think we got a bit carried away?"

"Not at all. Although, better that it happened at home and not in the restaurant. Perhaps I'll wear something less... enticing next time," he added.

John kissed the side of his head. "I'd rather you didn't."

Sherlock was smiling. "Well, quite frankly, if it leads to more of that, then I'll wear whatever you want me to wear."

 


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another date, but can they sit through a 'proper' date now that sex is on the menu? (Not literally, it's just Angelo's.)

_Dinner_  
_Angelo's_  
_7pm_  
_SH_  


Sherlock sent the text and went to get dressed. This time they would meet at the restaurant. No distractions - an actual dinner. A date. A real, honest date where they both knew what to expect.

Sherlock had realised that John deserved more than he had been giving him so far. He needed to attempt a certain new level of social interaction. With John. Out in John's world with him. Maybe that way they could become more of a normal couple and John would want to stay with him. Because despite the wonderful amounts of sex they had been having, Sherlock realised that there was more to life.

He would be the first to admit that he had been neglecting his cases, he was able to solve most within the time to took to write a text of course, but the lengthier ones were building up and for some reason John hadn't been demanding that Sherlock get to them. His reputation was on the line, he should get back to it. But at the moment his concern was John. What they had together, what they had managed to achieve between them once Sherlock had struggled through his emotions and realised he could do this.

Well, he could prove to John that he was able to perform in a normal situation and buy him dinner. He considered calling Angelo again to tell him that things had changed and that he and John were together, as a couple. But the wording was tricky. He had no idea what John would want him to say. Probably nothing. So he left it.

He pulled on his jeans, found a dark blue shirt to go with them this time and watched his reflection for a moment in the wardrobe mirror. His hair wasn't at its best but he gave it a good ruffle and brought out the curls which John told him he loved so much, and he was ready.

Except it was only 5.30pm. He huffed as he went to make tea and checked his phone. John had replied with a convincing, _Yes sir_ , and Sherlock smiled to himself as he sat down to wait.

  
  


He wasn't nervous, Sherlock didn't get nervous. But his heart was too fast and he was struggling to catch his breath as he strolled along Northumberland Street. He could put it down to the slight chill in the air but maybe this time he did know otherwise. The street lights were lit, a few people, mainly tourists ambling about and pub-goers claiming places in the rowdier establishments on the adjacent corners. Angelo's, tucked under its awning offered the quiet and solitude that Sherlock had always appreciated. He still appreciated it, but now he wanted to be with John. Everywhere. He was struggling with that concept. Years of being alone and content, and now when he was alone he wanted John there. Even just in the same room, certainly in bed - Sherlock had easily given up his middle position if it meant having John there to hold onto.

And the worst part of that was that he didn't mind it. His new obsession was John. The only worry he had was that one of them would decide that it wasn't going to last.

"Sherlock," John's voice came from behind him and Sherlock spun around. He smiled as John walked over casually, reached out and put a hand on his arm in greeting. Sherlock wished he would do more but he supposed that out here on the street maybe wasn't the place.

"Have you been waiting long? Shall we go in?" John asked.

"Mmm, yes, are you hungry?"

"Of course," John replied and he crossed to the entrance and pulled open the door while he waited for Sherlock. Sherlock marvelling at how gentlemanly John was, and always had been, nodded and went inside.

Angelo was on them at once and John's hand on Sherlock's back as he stepped over beside him made Sherlock's heart race all over again.

"Gentlemen," Angelo said, arms wide as he greeted them. "What a great pleasure it is to see you here again. I held your usual table, if you'd like to come over?"

Sherlock thanked him and John gave a light press to the small of his back, urging him inside. They took their seats in the window and Sherlock tried to remind himself how to act, what to do first, as they sat together, neither mentioning the candle that Angelo lit for them and John simply gazing across at Sherlock as he rested his elbows on the little table.

"What is it John? Is there something I'm forgetting? You really must remind me if I've done something, you know I don't actually want to embarrass you."

John was frowning at him after this speech, and Sherlock felt sure something was amiss. But then John shook his head and seemed to shake himself out of a daze, before he responded. "No, Sherlock, of course not, everything's fine, this is great, a great idea. Only-"

"Only what? John, if you'd rather we went somewhere else, or I can get rid of the candle-" He went to blow it out but John covered the flame with his hand.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, it's me... I-"

Sherlock just waited while John stuttered over his words. It appeared that they were both nervous. Angelo brought their menus out before John could finish, and he ordered wine and a starter before Sherlock had even looked at his menu. He could only stare at John.

"And for you, Sherlock?" Angelo asked.

Still watching John he made a quick motion with his hand and murmured, "The same, please." Angelo moved off with a thank you from John. "What is it?" Sherlock asked softly.

"You wore the jeans, Sherlock," he whispered.

"Ah, yes, I did," Sherlock agreed, looking down at himself.

"It's a bit hard to concentrate when you're wearing those," John told him.

And suddenly it was clear. Sherlock was smiling now. "I'm sorry," he said, completely unapologetically.

John pulled off his jumper and smoothed down the lightblue shirt underneath. He picked up his menu and began to wave it around his face. "It's warm tonight, isn't it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. He picked up his glass of water and took a slow sip before reaching for the buttons on his suit jacket and unbuttoning one and then the next. He slid it off his shoulders and twisted to hang it over his chair before turning back and catching John's expression. Now he looked almost dazed, just watching Sherlock over his glass. What had Sherlock done to him now? It was all very well to test out a theory, but there was a time and a place and he wasn't sure that this was the right time to have put John into a lustful haze when Sherlock had wanted to practice having dinner. It might be fun though.

John watched him closely. "I thought we'd agreed you would only wear those at home?" he whispered somehow managing to sound desperate and turned on at the same time. That was John though.

Sherlock hummed and thought about it. "I forgot," he lied. John scowled at him.

Angelo brought their food over personally, as he always did for Sherlock. He appreciated the man's unwavering loyalty. What he wasn't so sure about was the wink he gave to Sherlock when he thought John wasn't watching and then the look John was continuing to level at him when Angelo retreated to the kitchen.

"Did you mention anything to Angelo? About us?" John asked as he tucked into his pasta. Sherlock enjoyed watching him when they were out together. The previous occasions had involved rather too much alcohol to really appreciate everything that went on on one of John's 'dates'. He enjoyed John choosing wine he thought they would both like, found it much easier to choose the same food as John to avoid making another unnecessary decision. Watching John from across a small table, being able to reach across and touch his hand, it was all new and very pleasant.

And that was before the sex had happened. Now, when he was watching, being reminded by John to eat his own food, tapping glasses with John, drinking the wine, which this time had a certain dryness to it that made Sherlock's tongue tingle and want more, the whole process was just leading up to them getting back home to give each other orgasms. It was all heightened this evening by the fact that John clearly couldn't concentrate because of Sherlock's jeans.

"Honestly, I really didn't imagine you to be so preoccupied with clothes John. They're just jeans."

John put down his fork. "They're not though are they," he said, leaning closer to Sherlock over the table. "they're not just jeans. They make your bum look almost as enticing as it is naked, they make you walk differently, you stand around even more often with a hand on your hip when you've got them on - they do things to you Sherlock." He cleared his throat. "To both of us. Have you finished that?" he added as he took another long sip of his wine, clearly waiting for him.

"Yes, I'm nearly finished," Sherlock said, draining his own glass. "Don't you want dessert?"

John gave him a look which Sherlock had only seen in bed. And in the shower. Then he shook his head slowly and said, "Not here," and Sherlock got that feeling in his stomach that he'd only had in their bed. And in the shower.

He raised a hand and snapped his fingers without breaking eye contact with John and called for Angelo.

The man rushed over as John pulled on his jumper and Sherlock grabbed his jacket. He didn't put it on. "How was it Sherlock, are you leaving so soon? No more wine for you? We have profiteroles tonight, extra special."

"No, thank you," Sherlock said finally looking down at the man. "The bill, please."

"Oh, on the house Sherlock, of course!"

Sherlock noticed John's slightly dubious look when Angelo said this, and he pulled out a couple of notes and shoved them discreetly into Angelo's hand as they shook. The man had a business to run and Sherlock wasn't one to run up debts. "Everything was wonderful, Angelo, John's just feeling a little, um... unusual."

John stood there blinking as Angelo tapped his nose and nodded conspiratorially. "I understand boys, you've got other plans, I can see that." He was possibly attempting to whisper but heads were turning from all sides as the three men stood there beside the little table.

"Shall we go?" Sherlock said and he couldn't avoid another handshake from Angelo before he swept his arm out around John, not touching him, not here, and let him lead the way outside. Angelo thrusting him his coat as they went.

"What the hell was that Sherlock?" John said as Sherlock wandered ahead of him towards the tube.

He turned back and John was staring, waiting for a response. Sherlock frowned. "What was what?" he asked. He had pulled on his jacket but left his coat over one arm, giving John a better view. He knew he'd like that.

John came closer, lowering his voice. "I mean, we've not talked about it, I don't know how you feel about it, I don't have a problem with anyone knowing, but it's your reputation-"

Sherlock stopped him with a kiss. Just the briefest of kisses capturing John's lips in his own. Then he stood back, expectant.

John had been staring at him, wholly confused, apparently turned on, for most of the evening so far. But now, he seemed to have a certain something in his eyes that made Sherlock instantly regret that they were so far from home. Maps of the streets between here and home flashed through his mind as he determined just how quickly they could get there - fifty-three minutes on foot, over-estimated due to their alcohol consumption, or fourteen minutes by train from Charing Cross.

He didn't have time to mention any of this to John though before he was unceremoniously shoved into the doorway behind him, pedestrians be damned, and John lunged into another kiss. A deep kiss, he was tasting that wine on John's tongue. John's hands were clutching his arse as he insinuated himself ever closer to Sherlock's body. Sherlock's hands went to John's hips, holding on tightly as the kiss continued.

John finally drew back and Sherlock was the one to stare now, they were in public and John had never done anything so brazen before. Mind you, Sherlock was the one who had kissed him first, he should have expected it really. He smiled as John seemed to come to his senses and apologised.

"No need," Sherlock assured him. "Station's this way," he said as he made a show of walking back into the street, urging John to follow him and his jeans.

"Taxi," John called before Sherlock could get very far, and before he knew it John had taken his hand and was pulling him into the back of a cab.

"I can't wait much longer," John huffed quietly as he bounced on the leather. "Baker Street, and hurry," he told the cabbie.

Sherlock wondered how long it would take before John touched him, or whether they would make it back home. Either way, he was enjoying their date very much.

 


	18. Eighteen

The cab was going as fast as it could, John assumed, but it was still taking too long. He was avoiding looking over at Sherlock, trying to calm himself after that kiss. At this point John couldn't even really blame Sherlock for the state he had found himself in at Angelo's, the poor man must have thought there was something wrong with his food, they spent so little time in there, even after booking. He surely assumed Sherlock had a case to rush off for, he couldn't possibly know that he and John were fucking, and Sherlock had assured him he hadn't said anything.

Maybe John really was just that obvious in his desire for his friend. Everyone had assumed they were together from the start, they must have seen something there even before John had admitted it to himself.

He had no qualms about any of it now, not if it was ok with Sherlock. He risked a quick look at the man beside him, lounging on the seat, long legs crossed as he blatantly stared back at John, a look in his eye - he knew what he was doing. John closed his eyes. Only a few more minutes. The back of a cab was no place to out Sherlock Holmes.

"John," Sherlock hissed, making John turn back from his window watching.

John nodded expectantly but Sherlock didn't say anything, he just smiled. John looked down and Sherlock was reaching his hand across the seat, palm up, offering it to John.

John took a deep breath and reached across to him. He met Sherlock's eyes again and they were shining. John loved what was happening to Sherlock. He was so much more aware of himself, even if he had unintentionally dressed to kill John again, he knew by now that John was turned on by the smallest thing Sherlock did. He didn't have to use many of his deducing skills to see it.

They held hands until the cab turned into Baker Street and then John reluctantly pulled away to reach for his wallet. He shoved the notes through the little window to the driver, a quick thanks and they were outside on the pavement.

John hustled Sherlock up the front steps, Sherlock got the door open and a quick glance around told John they were alone. He kicked the door closed and shoved Sherlock against the wall, sliding his hands around his hips as he moved in on him. Sherlock didn't even seem taken aback, he still had a grin on his lips until John kissed him and it felt so good, to be making the first move finally, to not feel the need to ask permission, he knew - Sherlock wanted this too.

Sherlock's arms around his waist always got John's heart racing, the feeling of comfort and warmth he had when they embraced was something he didn't ever want to let go of.

He was on his toes, Sherlock pulling him easily up to meet his lips as they kissed again and again. John really didn't want to stop, the couple of glasses of wine were keeping his adrenaline levels up and his whole body was buzzing now that they were home, able to touch properly and his hands went to Sherlock's arse, squeezing.

He finally broke the kiss but Sherlock still held him close. "John," he whispered, leaning in for another kiss.

"We should get upstairs," John said, finding some sense from somewhere.

Sherlock relaxed his hold slightly and John squeezed his arse again, running his hands around to his hips, before taking Sherlock's hand and pulling him in the direction of the stairs. They weren't quiet, there was stumbling, they stopped for more kissing on the first landing, Sherlock pressing John in to the wall this time and looming over him before capturing his lips. He remembered the feeling when Sherlock had first manhandled him and he wanted more of that.

"Sherlock," he said as they got moving again, Sherlock leading them to the door. "Do you think you'd like to-" his question was muffled by Sherlock's lips as he dragged him close again and pushed the door open with one hand. They burst into the room in each other's arms and Sherlock released him for just a second which allowed John to add a gasping "...fuck me?" just as he saw from the corner of his eye that they weren't alone.

"Oh _shit_ ," he drew out as he turned Sherlock to see that their little secret was now not just between them, Mycroft and Angelo, but also Mrs Hudson (who to be honest had surely heard them at it already) _and_ Greg Lestrade.

"Language John, please," Mrs Hudson admonished, but she seemed otherwise decidedly unalarmed to see them in this rather intimate embrace.

Greg on the other hand... "Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock finally said, as he continued to hold John around his waist and John clung to his shirt. Greg was open-mouthed, literally gaping at them, standing near to the sofa, cup of tea in one hand. "Did you have any success with your case?"

John realised that nothing was going to be achieved here unless he and Sherlock separated, but Sherlock didn't seem to want to let go.

"Er," Greg said, still staring. "You said John knew about your date," he finally added. "You never told me he  _was_ your date." He sounded fairly scandalised but John couldn't quite work out if it was because Sherlock hadn't told him about them, or because of what he was currently witnessing.

John managed to gently disentangle himself and reached for Sherlock's hand, rather more discreetly holding it close beside their bodies. Although by this point there was no need to be discreet.

"You didn't ask," Sherlock told him and surely that was a good point, logical, direct Sherlock maybe would have told him, had he been asked.

Greg frowned at him and turned to John. "Well, this is a turn up," he said and suddenly he was beaming, he just looked so joyful and in another second he had taken the couple of steps across to John and Sherlock and his arms went around them both in a firm hug, his face fitting neatly between each of them. "I don't know what to say," he said, stepping back and shaking his head a little, still smiling. "Did you know about this, Mrs Hudson?"

John looked over and Mrs Hudson was actually mopping at her eyes with a tissue as she stood there watching them. "Oh, yes, yes, isn't it wonderful?" she said. "I've never seen them so happy."

John let Sherlock's hand fall and went over to put an arm around her shoulders. "Mrs Hudson," he murmured fondly. "Why am I suddenly surrounded by insatiable romantics?" he asked the room at large.

"Because you are an insatiable romantic yourself John. I've always known it," Sherlock told him. "Now," he said loudly. "Can all of this business wait until the morning? John and I do have plans you know." Mrs Hudson immediately took to her heels and bustled out of the room, holding the door as she waited for Greg.

"Oh," Greg drew out. "Yeah, yeah I can imagine."

"I'm not sure you can," Sherlock told him, and John really hoped things weren't about to become explicit. At least, not until everyone had left.

"All right, I'll leave you to it - but you have to promise me to come down to the station and tell me all about this. Both of you," he said, pointing a finger at each of them in turn.

John nodded, certain that was never going to happen, but really wanting to appease the man and have Sherlock to himself again.

Sherlock clapped Lestrade on the shoulder and all but shoved him towards the door. He'd unceremoniously evicted people from his presence many times but this seemed altogether gentler. John couldn't help but think Sherlock was glad that their friends now knew about them. John was glad. Mortified, but glad.

Sherlock leaned his back against the closed door and John felt suddenly vulnerable in the middle of the room, as if he was about to become prey. He didn't mind that for a second.

"Where were we?" Sherlock said and he stalked towards John and John could feel a definite change in the wind as he was tackled onto the sofa.

 


	19. Nineteen

“When did you first think about this, Sherlock?” John asked softly as they sat together on the sofa. John had an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, just lightly placed, thumb gently stroking the silky fabric of his dressing gown. The colour suited him well and John was more than a little happy that Sherlock wore it so often. The time they spent together at home was becoming more domestic whenever John considered it. If they weren’t having sex on every flat surface, and sometimes vertical surfaces which used muscles John had pretty much forgotten about, then they were eating dinner and discussing cases, or just watching a film together. The downtime, like this, was… nice. Really nice.

“This?” Sherlock murmured, pretending to be concentrating on the television in the corner of the room.

“Touching,” John said. “Us.”

He felt Sherlock turn to him and looked over to meet his eyes, warm, soft eyes that John wanted on him always. 

“Truthfully?”

John frowned and nodded once. “Yeah, of course.” 

“From the moment I realised it was a possibility. When I realised that you wanted it,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear that.” John’s feelings had set off this whole thing for Sherlock. If he had never voiced his feelings, they wouldn’t be here now.

“I would never have known it was ok to consider it, before then.”

John smiled. “It’s kind of ok to have unreciprocated feelings, you know? It’s when you can’t admit it to yourself that the problems occur.”

Sherlock’s soft smile was everything John needed. His hand drifted across to John’s knee and he tilted his head to rest against John’s. John let his eyes close. Content.

***

The hardest part though was when they left the flat. If it was a case, they both seemed to go straight into work-mode and there was no chance of slipping up and holding hands or anything. But after work, when they just wanted a drink, or a coffee, or on the very rare occasion when they would both go food shopping together, it was a real struggle to avoid taking Sherlock’s hand as they walked, or to stop himself from openly staring when Sherlock was ordering for them, or just when he was talking. It was like the turn of events and honesty had given John’s brain free leave to be obvious about their relationship wherever they were. He knew they had to talk about it, about public displays of affection and how they both felt about it, but they were taking so many leaps in their relationship he wanted to make sure he was doing the best by Sherlock. 

It was Sherlock who slipped up first. Stepping back from the footprints Lestrade had called them in for, the forth set this week to have been painted on the underside of a bridge above the body of a (thankfully now removed) dead sheep. John had no idea what was going on, he was sure Sherlock did but he wasn’t sure when he would fill John in. 

Apparently, elated that he had found a useful clue at this one, he took John’s arm, leaning in close enough that John could smell the cologne he had given Sherlock recently. When he didn’t immediately move back or look as if he was going to, John’s grin subsided as he whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Sherlock, you… uh - you know where we are?”

“Ahead of the game, John, that’s where we are.” He ran his hand up John’s arm and squeezed his shoulder. “So,” he carried on, voice low and almost sultry, still seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were surrounded by several police officers, “dinner?”

John coughed as he realised they were being watched by Greg and at least two others, all with various expressions of surprise. “Ah, yeah, yes-” he said a little too loudly, making Sherlock blink at him. “Greg! Are you hungry?” John called out unnecessarily. Sherlock’s hand fell away as John stepped back, smiling widely and manically between the others.

“No, no, it’s all right,” Lestrade said, “you two go ahead, I’ll do the admin back at the Yard, no problem. Probably be finished by midnight, if I’m lucky,” he added, backing away. “I can recommend the Prince Albert along the road there, excellent service, very… discreet.” He gave them a wink, turning and heading for his car.

John stared open mouthed at Lestrade’s retreating back and Sherlock hissed, “Discreet? What does he mean?”

John swallowed and looked at Sherlock, the warmth in his cheeks fading. “Sherlock, you were a little close just now. If you’re going for public displays, well, people are going to take notice.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you want us to be on the front pages, arm in arm?”

“The front pages, John, really? Are we still at that stage?”

“Uh, with this? With us? Touching at crime scenes? I think we might make it back into the papers, yeah.”

“Yes, well, maybe it is a little unprofessional. But I can’t help wanting to be close to you, John, you know that.”

“I know. And I want that too. And I’m proud of you, proud of us,” he added, just so Sherlock knew.

Sherlock smiled. “Well, then, since when have I ever been professional?” He stepped close and placed a gloved hand over John’s cheek, leaning in to kiss him, slowly pressing their lips together as John heard a couple of police cars moving off behind them. Sherlock only moved away a fraction when a horn sounded and Lestrade’s voice called out to them, “Get a room, you two!” followed by fond laughter. John resisted the urge to give him the finger, and Sherlock just smiled down at him as if John was more important to him at that moment than the crime scene.

  


They got a taxi, Sherlock taking John’s hand as they walked to the kerb and to John’s surprise they were heading back to the flat. To his further surprise, Sherlock asked the cabbie, “Do you have a dividing screen?”

The driver responded with a definitive, “Nope.”

“Then I would suggest not looking in your mirror for the rest of this journey,” Sherlock told him, before he lunged at John and tackled him down onto the seat.

John had no problem with being manhandled, he had found he enjoyed it very much in their bed. In the back of a black cab was a little more difficult to fully embrace, due to the various door handles and other protrusions as they fumbled for a hold on each other and their mouths met over and over in messy kisses. 

The cabbie clearly wasn’t amused and with a harsh use of the brakes John and Sherlock tumbled to the floor before they could stop themselves, John taking the brunt of it as Sherlock straddled him and kept kissing him, hauling him up so that at least his head and shoulders were braced against the side of the cab and not on the floor where God knew what was going to stick to his hair. 

He was easily distracted by more kissing, but when he finally felt them pull to a stop he attempted to push Sherlock off him. Before he could, the door was yanked open and they found themselves on the street - on the actual street, pavement beneath them as they looked up into a very disgruntled face.

“Ah, Sherlock, I think a rather large tip is in order, don’t you?” he murmured, as Sherlock fished around for some cash and John attempted to rise from the ground with some dignity in place. He shook his head as he brushed himself down and knew that there was no dignity to be salvaged from this situation. None whatsoever.

He glared as Sherlock turned to him with a growing smile and the cab pulled away behind him. “Would you like to take this inside?” he asked, as if they hadn’t just been grinding against each other in the back of a cab like horny teenagers.

“Lead the way,” he offered politely - his heart was still racing and he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of the last hour’s activities. He only wanted to get Sherlock back into his arms. Preferably somewhere soft.

  


They woke up the next morning in Sherlock’s bed. John had moved pretty much all of his clothes downstairs and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in his own bed. The one time John had gone upstairs by himself while Sherlock was out without him, he’d woken in the morning to find Sherlock curled around him. After that their unspoken agreement was that John should sleep in Sherlock’s bed. Every night. He stretched and dislodged Sherlock from his chest and felt the aching bruises where he’d been knocked to the floor so often yesterday. “Ow,” he murmured. 

Sherlock mumbled a sleepy question and John kissed his naked shoulder before easing himself off the bed to go to the bathroom. “I hurt. That’s the last time you wrestle me in a moving vehicle.”

“I didn’t notice you complaining at the time, John,” Sherlock said, raised up on an elbow and looking at John with narrowed eyes and John needed to hurry in the bathroom because he wanted to get back into bed straight away.

He was smiling at the thought of what they did last night, what they might be doing in about a minute’s time. Sherlock held up his phone as soon as John walked back into the bedroom. “You have a message.”

John thought Sherlock’s expression was expectant, if a little unsure, a tiny curl to his lips. John took the phone from him. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, right.” It was from Mycroft. A photo message, with the simple text below:  _ A little discretion, Brother, mine. _

John stood staring at the grainy image of himself lying on the pavement outside the flat, Sherlock on top of him, still kissing, legs entangled and part way in the back of the cab. 

Before he could even begin to process the fact that Mycroft had this picture and would send it to John, there was a call from below - Mrs Hudson in the hallway downstairs.

“Sherlock? John?” 

“Ah… yes, Mrs Hudson?” John called back, voice a little croaky. Sherlock lay on his rumpled sheets, apparently not a care in the world as John’s heart beat rapidly. He wasn’t worried for himself, but if Sherlock’s reputation was damaged by their relationship, John would hold himself fully accountable.

Mrs Hudson appeared around the door, a stack of newspapers in her arms. “You have been busy, John,” she said with a wink. 

“Busy?” 

She handed him the papers and took up the top one, holding it out so John could see. She was smiling as John’s eyes moved from her to the tabloid.  **Mystery Solved** , the headline read, while underneath was a startlingly romantic photo of two men embracing under a bridge. John’s face was partially obscured by Sherlock’s gloved hand, and in fact his mouth, but there could be no doubt that this was John and Sherlock. He pulled it gently from Mrs Hudson’s grasp and moved slowly back towards the bedroom, dropping the papers down on the bed for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock who was texting from John’s phone. “Give me that,” John said, rumpled and flustered and still in his pants and there was just too much going on here. “I need a cup of tea,” he said with a sigh and went into the kitchen, leaving Mrs Hudson to gush over the “beautiful picture of you both”.

John looked down at his phone where the message Sherlock had just sent was still on the screen. Sherlock had sent a reply photo to Mycroft, of himself and John, in their bed, just a sheet around themselves, mostly naked, Sherlock kissing John’s temple.

“Sherlock,” he called out, thinking of telling him how childish he was being, but then he sighed again. “Ahh, what does it matter,” he muttered as he boiled the kettle.

When he got back to the bedroom with their tea, Sherlock was placing a picture frame back on the mantelpiece. He’d replaced whatever was in there with a black and white image from one of the papers - and he and Mrs Hudson were standing admiring it. “You should ask for the original, Sherlock, it really is good.”

John stared at the pair of them, aghast. “You’re really ok with this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock took the tea from him and put an arm around his shoulders, kissing him before sipping from the mug. “More than ok, John. There’s no point in hiding.”

“What if people think you’ll be distracted now, being in a relationship?”

“But it’s you, John Watson. You keep me right.”

John scowled at him but his expression quickly relaxed at the smile on Sherlock’s face. Whatever happened from here onwards, Sherlock was happy, and that made John the happiest he had been in years. 

“You’re an idiot,” he murmured fondly, and Sherlock took both their mugs and put them on the mantelpiece before taking a gentle hold of John’s face and bringing him into a kiss as John smiled against his lips. 

“Made for each other,” John heard Mrs Hudson say as she left them, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock just kept kissing him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sneaks in with final update after 7 months*  
> Hi! I'm so sorry it took me so long to finish this, I fully admit to falling into two new fandoms (well one really, just Dylan O'Brien and everything he's involved in *sigh*) and letting John and Sherlock go for a bit. But part of this I'd written months ago and the last part came to me the other day and I had my ending. Yay! I hope it's a satisfying ending, they've definitely ended up in new territory, no secrets now. Thanks for reading and all the kudos and comments from before, you've all been lovely :D


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